!ARY 

SITY  OP 

3RNIA 

NE 


131 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS 
AULD  LIGHT  IDYLLS 


Photograph  iy  f.  Hollye 


J.   M.   BARRIE 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS 


AULD  LIGHT  IDYLLS 


BY 

J.  M.  BARRIE 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1896,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


CONTENTS 
A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS 

CHAFFER  PAGE 

I  THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  BRAE 1 

II  ON  THE  TRACK  OF  THE  MINISTER   ...  9 

III  PREPARING  TO  RECEIVE  COMPANY  ...  16 

IV  WAITING  FOR  THE  DOCTOR 22 

V  A  HUMORIST  ON  His  CALLING     ....  30 

VI  DEAD  THIS  TWENTY  YEARS 39 

VII  THE  STATEMENT  OF  TIBBIE  BIRSE  ...    49 

VIII  A  CLOAK  WITH  BEADS 56 

IX  THE  POWER  OF  BEAUTY 66 

X  A  MAGNUM  OPUS 72 

XI  THE  GHOST  CRADLE 78 

XII  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  WIFE .87 

XIII  MAKING  THE  BEST  OF  IT 94 

XIV  VISITORS  AT  THE  MANSE 101 

XV     How    GAVIN    BIRSE    PUT    IT    TO    MAG 

LOWNIE 109 

XVI    THE  SON  FROM  LONDON 117 

v 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

XVII    A  HOME  FOB  GENIUSES .130 

XVIII    LEEBY  AND  JAMIE 136 

XIX    A  TALE  OF  A  GLOVE 146 

XX    THE  LAST  NIGHT 155 

XXI    JESS  LEFT  ALONE 163 

XXII    JAMIE'S  HOME-COMING .170 

AULD  LIGHT  IDYLLS 

I    THE  SCHOOLHOUSE 181 

II    THRUMS 188 

III  THE  AULD  LICHT  KIRK £26 

IV  LADS  AND  LASSES 252 

V    THE  AULD  LIGHTS  IN  ARMS 267 

VI    THE  OLD  DOMINIE 279 

VII  CREE  QUEERY  AND  MYSY  DROLLY  .    .    .  290 

VIII  THE  COURTING  OF  T'NOWHEAD'S  BELL    .  298 

IX  DAVIT    LUNAN'S    POLITICAL    REMINIS- 
CENCES     328 

X    A  VERY  OLD  FAMILY     . 335 

XI    LITTLE  RATHIE'S  "BURAL" 343 

XII  A  LITERARY  CLUB                                     .  353 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

J.  M.  BAREIE Frtmtupie, 


ce 


PACING 

PAGE 


The  square  foot  of  glass  where  Jess  sat  in  her  chair 

and  looked  down  the  brae    ....  4 

Sabbath  at  T'nowhead  ......  .  308 


vii 


INTRODUCTION 

WHEN  the  English  publishers  read  »« A  Win- 
dow in  Thrums "  in  manuscript  they 
thought  it  unbearably  sad  and  begged  me  to  alter 
the  end.  They  warned  me  that  the  public  do  not 
like  sad  books.  Well,  the  older  I  grow  and  the 
sadder  the  things  I  see,  the  more  do  I  wish  my 
books  to  be  bright  and  hopeful,  but  an  author  may 
not  always  interfere  with  his  story,  and  if  I  had 
altered  the  end  of  "A  Window  in  Thrums"  I 
think  I  should  never  have  had  any  more  respect 
for  myself.  It  is  a  sadder  book  to  me  than  it  can 
ever  be  to  anyone  else.  I  see  Jess  at  her  window 
looking  for  the  son  who  never  came  back  as  no 
other  can  see  her,  and  I  knew  that  unless  I  brought 
him  back  in  time  the  book  would  be  a  pain  to  me 
all  my  days,  but  the  thing  had  to  be  done. 

I  think  there  are  soft-hearted  readers  here  and 
there  who  will  be  glad  to  know  that  there  never 
was  any  Jess.  There  is  a  little  house  still  stand- 
ing at  the  top  of  the  brae  which  can  be  identified 
as  her  house,  I  chose  it  for  her  though  I  was  never 
in  it  myself,  but  it  is  only  the  places  in  my  books 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 

about  Thrums  that  may  be  identified.  The  men 
and  women,  with  indeed  some  very  subsidiary  ex- 
ceptions, who  now  and  again  cross  the  square,  are 
entirely  imaginary,  and  Jess  is  of  them.  But 
anything  in  her  that  was  rare  or  beautiful  she  had 
from  my  mother ;  the  imaginary  woman  came  to 
me  as  I  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  real  one.  And 
as  it  is  the  love  of  mother  and  son  that  has  written 
everything  of  mine  that  is  of  any  worth,  it  was 
natural  that  the  awful  horror  of  the  untrue  son 
should  dog  my  thoughts  and  call  upon  me  to  paint 
the  picture.  That,  I  believe  now,  though  I  had 
no  idea  of  it  at  the  time,  is  how  "  A  Window  in 
Thrums  "  came  to  be  written,  less  by  me  than  by 
an  impulse  from  behind.  And  so  it  wrote  itself, 
very  quickly.  I  have  read  that  I  rewrote  it  eight 
times,  but  it  was  written  once  only,  nearly  every 
chapter,  I  think,  at  a  sitting. 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS 
CHAPTER  I 

THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  BRAE 

ON  the  bump  of  green  round  wmch  the  brae 
twists,  at  the  top  of  the  brae,  and  within  cry 
of  T'nowhead  Farm,  still  stands  a  one-storey  house, 
whose  whitewashed  walls,  streaked  with  the  dis- 
coloration that  rain  leaves,  look  yellow  when  the 
snow  comes.  In  the  old  days  the  stiff  ascent  left 
Thrums  behind,  and  where  is  now  the  making  of 
a  suburb  was  only  a  poor  row  of  dwellings  and  a 
manse,  with  Hendry's  cot  to  watch  the  brae.  The 
house  stood  bare,  without  a  shrub,  in  a  garden 
whose  paling  did  not  go  all  the  way  round,  the 
potato  pit  being  only  kept  out  of  the  road,  that 
here  sets  off  southward,  by  a  broken  dyke  of  stones 
and  earth.  On  each  side  of  the  slate-coloured  door 
was  a  window  of  knotted  glass.  Ropes  were  flung 
over  the  thatch  to  keep  the  roof  on  in  wind. 
Into  this  humble  abode  I  would  take  any  one 
1 


A  WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

who  cares  to  accompany  me.  But  you  must  not 
come  in  a  contemptuous  mood,  thinking  that  the 
poor  are  but  a  stage  removed  from  beasts  of  burden, 
as  some  cruel  writers  of  these  days  say ;  nor  will  I 
have  you  turn  over  with  your  foot  the  shabby 
horse-hair  chairs  that  Leeby  kept  so  speckless,  and 
Hendry  weaved  for  years  to  buy,  and  Jess  so  loved 
to  look  upon. 

I  speak  of  the  chairs,  but  if  we  go  together  into 
the  "  room  "  they  will  not  be  visible  to  you.  For 
a  long  time  the  house  has  been  to  let.  Here,  on 
the  left  of  the  doorway,  as  we  enter,  is  the  room, 
without  a  shred  of  furniture  in  it  except  the  boards 
of  two  closed-in  beds.  The  flooring  is  not  steady, 
and  here  and  there  holes  have  been  eaten  into  the 
planks.  You  can  scarcely  stand  upright  beneath 
the  decaying  ceiling.  Worn  boards  and  ragged 
walls,  and  the  rusty  ribs  fallen  from  the  fireplace, 
are  all  that  meet  your  eyes,  but  1  see  a  round,  un- 
steady, waxcloth-covered  table,  with  four  books 
lying  at  equal  distances  on  it.  There  are  six  prim 
chairs,  two  of  them  not  to  be  sat  upon,  backed 
against  the  walls,  and  between  the  window  and  the 
fireplace  a  chest  of  drawers,  with  a  snowy  coverlet. 
On  the  drawers  stands  a  board  with  coloured 
marbles  for  the  game  of  solitaire,  and  I  have  only 
to  open  the  drawer  with  the  loose  handle  to  bring 
out  the  dambrod.  In  the  carved  wood  frame  over 
the  window  hangs  Jamie's  portrait;  in  the  only 

2 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE  BRAE 

pther  frame  a  picture  of  Daniel  in  the  den  of  lions, 
sewn  by  Leeby  in  wool.  Over  the  chimney-piece 
with  its  shells,  in  which  the  roar  of  the  sea  can  be 
heard,  are  strung  three  rows  of  birds'  eggs.  Once 
again  we  might  be  expecting  company  to  tea. 

The  passage  is  narrow.  There  is  a  square  hole 
between  the  rafters,  and  a  ladder  leading  up  to  it. 
You  may  climb  and  look  into  the  attic,  as  Jess 
liked  to  hear  me  call  my  tiny  garret-room.  I  am 
stiffer  now  than  in  the  days  when  I  lodged  with 
Jess  during  the  summer  holiday  I  am  trying  to 
bring  back,  and  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  ascend. 
Do  not  laugh  at  the  newspapers  with  which  Leeby 
papered  the  garret,  nor  at  the  yarn  Hendry  stuffed 
into  the  windy  holes.  He  did  it  to  warm  the  house 
for  Jess.  But  the  paper  must  have  gone  to  pieces 
and  the  yarn  rotted  decades  ago. 

I  have  kept  the  kitchen  for  the  last,  as  Jamie 
did  on  the  dire  day  of  which  I  shall  have  to  tell. 
It  has  a  flooring  of  stone  now,  where  there  used 
only  to  be  hard  earth,  and  a  broken  pane  in  the 
window  is  indifferently  stuffed  with  rags.  But  it 
is  the  other  window  I  turn  to,  with  a  pain  at  my 
heart,  and  pride  and  fondness  too,  the  square  foot 
of  glass  where  Jess  sat  in  her  chair  and  looked 
down  the  brae. 

Ah,  that  brae !  The  history  of  tragic  little 
Thrums  is  sunk  into  it  like  the  stones  it  swallows 
in  the  winter.  We  have  all  found  the  brae  long 

3 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS 

and  steep  in  the  spring  of  life.  Do  you  remember 
how  the  child  you  once  were  sat  at  the  foot  of  it 
and  wondered  if  a  new  world  began  at  the  top  ? 
It  climbs  from  a  shallow  burn,  and  we  used  to  sit 
on  the  brig  a  long  time  before  venturing  to  climb. 
As  boys  we  ran  up  the  brae.  As  men  and  women, 
young  and  in  our  prime,  we  almost  forgot  that  it 
was  there.  But  the  autumn  of  life  comes,  and  the 
brae  grows  steeper;  then  the  winter,  and  once 
again  we  are  as  the  child  pausing  apprehensively 
on  the  brig.  Yet  are  we  no  longer  the  child;  we 
look  now  for  no  new  world  at  the  top,  only  for  a 
little  garden  and  a  tiny  house,  and  a  handloom  in 
the  house.  It  is  only  a  garden  of  kail  and  pota- 
toes, but  there  may  be  a  line  of  daisies,  white  and 
red,  on  each  side  of  the  narrow  footpath,  and  honey- 
suckle over  the  door.  Life  is  not  always  hard, 
even  after  backs  grow  bent,  and  we  know  that  all 
braes  lead  only  to  the  grave. 

This  is  Jess's  window.  For  more  than  twenty 
years  she  had  not  been  able  to  go  so  far  as  the 
door,  and  only  once  while  I  knew  her  was  she  ben 
in  the  room.  With  her  husband,  Hendry,  or  their 
only  daughter,  Leeby,  to  lean  upon,  and  her  hand 
clutching  her  staff,  she  took  twice  a  day,  when  she 
was  strong,  the  journey  between  her  bed  and  the 
window  where  stood  her  chair.  She  did  not  lie 
there  looking  at  the  sparrows  or  at  Leeby  redding 
up  the  house,  and  I  hardly  ever  heard  her  com- 

4 


wn  by  1-.  Bernard  Partridge 

THE  SQUARE  FOOT  OF  GLASS  WHERE  JESS  SAT  IN  HER  CHAIR 
AND  LOOKED  DOWN  THE  BRAE 


THE  HOUSE  ON   THE  BRAE 

plain.  All  the  sewing  was  done  by  her ;  she  often 
baked  on  a  table  pushed  close  to  the  window,  and 
by  leaning  forward  she  could  stir  the  porridge. 
Leeby  was  seldom  off  her  feet,  but  I  do  not  know 
that  she  did  more  than  Jess,  who  liked  to  tell  me, 
when  she  had  a  moment  to  spare,  that  she  had  a 
terrible  lot  to  be  thankful  for. 

To  those  who  dwell  in  great  cities  Thrums  is 
only  a  small  place,  but  what  a  clatter  of  life  it  has 
for  me  when  I  come  to  it  from  my  school-house  in 
the  glen.  Had  my  lot  been  cast  in  a  town  I  would 
no  doubt  have  sought  country  parts  during  my 
September  holiday,  but  the  school-house  is  quiet 
even  when  the  summer  takes  brakes  full  of  sports- 
men and  others  past  the  top  of  my  footpath,  and  I 
was  always  light-hearted  when  Craigiebuckle's  cart 
bore  me  into  the  din  of  Thrums.  I  only  once 
stayed  during  the  whole  of  my  holiday  at  the 
house  on  the  brae,  but  I  knew  its  inmates  for 
many  years,  including  Jamie,  the  son,  who  was  a 
barber  in  London.  Of  their  ancestry  I  never  heard. 
With  us  it  was  only  some  of  the  articles  of  fur- 
niture, or  perhaps  a  snuff-mull,  that  had  a  genea- 
logical tree.  In  the  house  on  the  brae  was  a  great 
kettle,  called  the  boiler,  that  was  said  to  be  fifty 
years  old  in  the  days  of  Hendry's  grandfather,  of 
whom  nothing  more  is  known.  Jess's  chair,  which 
had  carved  arms  and  a  seat  stuffed  with  rags,  had 
been  Snecky  Hobart's  father's  before  it  was  hers, 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

and  old  Snecky  bought  it  at  a  roup  in  the  Tene- 
ments. Jess's  rarest  possession  was,  perhaps,  the 
christening  robe  that  even  people  at  a  distance 
came  to  borrow.  Her  mother  could  count  up  a 
hundred  persons  who  had  been  baptized  in  it. 

Every  one  of  the  hundred,  I  believe,  is  dead, 
and  even  I  cannot  now  pick  out  Jess  and  Hendry's 
grave ;  but  I  heard  recently  that  the  christening 
robe  is  still  in  use.  It  is  strange  that  I  should  still 
be  left  after  so  many  changes,  one  of  the  three  or 
four  who  can  to-day  stand  on  the  brae  and  point 
out  Jess's  window.  The  little  window  commands 
the  incline  to  the  point  where  the  brae  suddenly 
jerks  out  of  sight  in  its  climb  down  into  the  town. 
The  steep  path  up  the  commonty  makes  for  this 
elbow  of  the  brae,  and  thus,  whichever  way  the 
traveller  takes,  it  is  here  that  he  comes  first  into 
sight  of  the  window.  Here,  too,  those  who  go  to 
the  town  from  the  south  get  their  first  glimpse  of 
Thrums. 

Carts  pass  up  and  down  the  brae  every  few 
minutes,  and  there  comes  an  occasional  gig.  Sel- 
dom is  the  brae  empty,  for  many  live  beyond  the 
top  of  it  now,  and  men  and  women  go  by  to  their 
work,  children  to  school  or  play.  Not  one  of  the 
children  I  see  from  the  window  to-day  is  known 
to  me,  and  most  of  the  men  and  women  I  only 
recognize  by  their  likeness  to  their  parents.  That 
sweet-faced  old  woman  with  the  shawl  on  her 

6 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   BRAE 

shoulders  may  be  one  of  the  girls  who  was  playing 
at  the  game  of  palaulays  when  Jamie  stole  into 
Thrums  for  the  last  time  ;  the  man  who  is  leaning 
on  the  commonty  gate  gathering  breath  for  the  last 
quarter  of  the  brae  may,  as  a  barefooted  callant, 
have  been  one  of  those  who  chased  Cree  Queery 
past  the  poor-house.  I  cannot  say ;  but  this  I  know, 
that  the  grandparents  of  most  of  these  boys  and 
girls  were  once  young  with  me.  If  I  see  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  my  friends  grown  old,  I  also  see 
the  grandchildren  spinning  the  peerie  and  hunker- 
ing at  I-dree-I-dree  —  I-droppit-it  —  as  we  did  so 
long  ago.  The  world  remains  as  young  as  ever. 
The  lovers  that  met  on  the  commonty  in  the 
gloaming  are  gone,  but  there  are  other  lovers  to 
take  their  place,  and  still  the  commonty  is  here. 
The  sun  had  sunk  on  a  fine  day  in  June,  early  in 
the  century,  when  Hendry  and  Jess,  newly  married, 
he  in  a  rich  moleskin  waistcoat,  she  in  a  white  net 
cap,  walked  to  the  house  on  the  brae  that  was  to 
be  their  home.  So  Jess  has  told  me.  Here  again 
has  been  just  such  a  day,  and  somewhere  in  Thrums 
there  may  be  just  such  a  couple,  setting  out  for 
their  home  behind  a  horse  with  white  ears  instead 
of  walking,  but  with  the  same  hopes  and  fears,  and 
the  same  love  light  in  their  eyes.  The  world  does 
not  age.  The  hearse  passes  over  the  brae  and  up 
the  straight  burying-ground  road,  but  still  there  is 
a  cry  for  the  christening  robe. 

7 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

Jess's  window  was  a  beacon  by  night  to  travellers 
in  the  dark,  and  it  will  be  so  in  the  future  when 
there  are  none  to  remember  Jess.  There  are  many 
such  windows  still,  with  loving  faces  behind  them. 
From  them  we  watch  for  the  friends  and  relatives 
who  are  coming  back,  and  some,  alas !  watch  in 
vain.  Not  every  one  returns  who  takes  the  elbow 
of  the  brae  bravely,  or  waves  his  handkerchief  to 
those  who  watch  from  the  window  with  wet  eyes, 
and  some  return  too  late.  To  Jess,  at  her  window 
always  when  she  was  not  in  bed,  things  happy  and 
mournful  and  terrible  came  into  view.  At  this 
window  she  sat  for  twenty  years  or  more  looking 
at  the  world  as  through  a  telescope ;  and  here  an 
awful  ordeal  was  gone  through  after  her  sweet  un- 
tarnished soul  had  been  given  back  to  God. 


8 


CHAPTER  II 

ON  THE  TRACK.  OF  THE  MINISTER 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  Saturday  that  carted  me 
and  my  two  boxes  to  Thrums,  I  was  ben  in  the 
room  playing  Hendry  at  the  dambrod.  I  had  one 
of  the  room  chairs,  but  Leeby  brought  a  chair  from 
the  kitchen  for  her  father.  Our  door  stood  open, 
and  as  Hendry  often  pondered  for  two  minutes 
with  his  hand  on  a  "  man,"  I  could  have  joined  in 
the  gossip  that  was  going  on  but  the  house. 

"Ay,  weel,  then,  Leeby,"  said  Jess,  suddenly, 
"  I'll  warrant  the  minister  '11  no  be  preachin'  the 
morn." 

This  took  Leeby  to  the  window. 

"  Yea,  yea,"  she  said  (and  I  knew  she  was 
nodding  her  head  sagaciously) ;  I  looked  out  at 
the  room  window,  but  all  I  could  see  was  a  man 
wheeling  an  empty  barrow  down  the  brae. 

"  That's  Robbie  Tosh,"  continued  Leeby;  "an* 
there's  nae  doot  'at  he's  makkin  for  the  minister's, 
for  he  has  on  his  black  coat.  He'll  be  to  row  the 
minister's  luggage  to  the  post-cart.  Ay,  an'  that's 

9 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS 

Davit  Lunnan's  barrow.  I  ken  it  by  the  shaft's 
bein'  spliced  wi*  yarn.  Davit  broke  the  shaft  at 
the  saw-mill." 

"  He'll  be  gaen  awa  for  a  curran  (number  of) 
days,"  said  Jess, "  or  he  would  juist  hae  taen  his 
bag.  Ay,  he'll  be  awa  to  Edinbory,  to  see  the 
lass." 

"  I  wonder  wha'll  be  to  preach  the  morn  —  tod, 
it'll  likely  be  Mr.  Skinner,  frae  Dundee ;  him  an* 
the  minister's  chief,  ye  ken." 

"  Ye  micht'  gang  up  to  the  attic,  Leeby,  an'  see 
if  the  spare  bedroom  vent  (chimney)  at  the  manse 
is  gaen.  We're  sure,  if  it's  Mr.  Skinner,  he'll  come 
wi'  the  post  frae  Tilliedrum  the  nicht,  an'  sleep 
at  the  manse." 

"Weel,  I  assure  ye,"  said  Leeby,  descending 
from  the  attic,  "it'll  no  be  Mr.  Skinner,  for  no 
only  is  the  spare  bedroom  vent  no  gaen,  but  the 
blind's  drawn  doon  frae  tap  to  fut,  so  they're  no 
even  airin'  the  room.  Na,  it  canna  be  him;  an' 
what's  mair,  it'll  be  naebody  'at's  to  bide  a'  nicht 
at  the  manse." 

"  I  wouldna  say  that ;  na,  na.  It  may  only  be 
a  student ;  an'  Marget  Dundas "  (the  minister's 
mother  and  housekeeper)  "  michtna  think  it  neces- 
sary to  put  on  a  fire  for  him." 

"  Tod,  I'll  tell  ye  wha  it'll  be.  I  wonder  I  didna 
think  o'  'im  sooner.  It'll  be  the  lad  Wilkie ;  him 
'at's  mither  mairit  on  Sam'l  Duthie's  wife's  brither. 

10 


ON  THE   TRACK  OF   THE   MINISTER 

They  bide  in  Cupar,  an'  I  mind  'at  when  the  son 
was  here  twa  or  three  year  syne  he  was  juist  gaen 
to  begin  the  diveenity  classes  in  Glesca." 

"  If  that's  so,  Leeby,  he  would  be  sure  to  bide 
wi'  Sam'l.  Hendry,  hae  ye  heard  'at  Sam'l 
Duthie's  expeckin'  a  stranger  the  nicht  ?  " 

"  Haud  yer  tongue,"  replied  Hendry,  who  was 
having  the  worst  of  the  game. 

"  Ay,  but  I  ken  he  is,"  said  Leeby  triumphantly 
to  her  mother,  "  for  ye  mind  when  I  was  in  at 
Johnny  Watt's  (the  draper's)  Chirsty  (Sam'l's  wife) 
was  buyin'  twa  yards  o'  chintz,  an'  I  couldna  think 
what  she  would  be  wantin'  't  for ! " 

"  I  thocht  Johnny  said  to  ye  'at  it  was  for  a 
present  to  Chirsty's  auntie  *?  " 

"Ay,  but  he  juist  guessed  that;  for,  though  he 
tried  to  get  oot  o'  Chirsty  what  she  wanted  the 
chintz  for,  she  wouldna  tell  'im.  But  I  see  noo 
what  she  was  after.  The  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to  bide 
wi'  them,  and  Chirsty  had  .bocht  the  chintz  to 
cover  the  airm-chair  wi'.  It's  ane  o'  thae  hair- 
bottomed  chairs,  but  terrible  torn,  so  she'll  hae 
covered  it  for  'im  to  sit  on." 

"I  wouldna  wonder  but  ye 're  richt,  Leeby;  for 
Chirsty  would  be  in  an  oncommon  fluster  if  she 
thocht  the  lad's  mither  was  likely  to  hear  'at  he\ 
best  chair  was  torn.  Ay,  ay,  bein'  a  man,  he 
wouldna  think  to  tak  off  the  chintz  an'  hae  a  look 
at  the  chair  withoot  it." 

ll 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

Here  Hendry,  who  had  paid  no  attention  to  the 
conversation,  broke  in  — 

"  Was  ye  speirin'  had  I  seen  Sam'l  Duthie  ?  I 
saw  'im  yesterday  buy  in*  a  fender  at  Will'um 
Crook's  roup." 

"  A  fender !  Ay,  ay,  that  settles  the  queistion," 
said  Leeby ;  "  I'll  warrant  the  fender  was  for 
Chirsty's  parlour.  It's  preyed  on  Chirsty's  mind, 
they  say,  this  fower-and-thirty  year  'at  she  doesna 
hae  a  richt  parlour  fender." 

"Leeby,  look!  That's  Robbie  Tosh  wi'  the 
barrow.  He  has  a  michty  load  o'  luggage.  Am 
thinkin'  the  minister's  bound  for  Tilliedrum." 

"  Na,  he's  no,  he's  gaen  to  Edinbory,  as  ye  micht 
ken  by  the  bandbox.  That'll  be  his  mither's 
bonnet  he's  takkin'  back  to  get  altered.  Ye' 11 
mind  she  was  never  pleased  wi'  the  set  o'  the 
flowers." 

"  Weel,  weel,  here  comes  the  minister  himsel, 
an'  very  snod  he  is.  Ay,  Margef  s  been  puttin' 
new  braid  on  his  coat,  an'  he's  carryin'  the  sma' 
black  bag  he  bocht  in  Dundee  last  year:  he'll 
hae's  nicht-shirt  an'  a  comb  in't,  I  dinna  doot.  Ye 
micht  rin  to  the  corner,  Leeby,  an'  see  if  he  cries 
in  at  Jess  McTaggart's  in  passinV 

**  It's  my  opeenion,"  said  Leeby,  returning  ex- 
citedly from  the  corner,  w  'at  the  lad  Wilkie's  no 
to  be  preachin'  the  morn,  after  a'.  When  I  gangs 
to  the  corner,  at  ony  rate,  what  think  ye's  the  first 

12 


ON  THE   TRACK  OF   THE   MINISTER 

thing  I  see  but  the  minister  an'  Sam'l  Duthie 
meetin'  face  to  face?  Ay,  weel,  it's  gospel  am 
tellin'  ye  when  I  say  as  Sam'l  flung  back  his  head 
an'  walkit  richt  by  the  minister ! " 

"  Losh  keep's  a',  Leeby ;  ye  say  that  ?  They 
maun  hae  haen  a  quarrel." 

"  I'm  thinkin'  we'll  hae  Mr.  Skinner  i'  the  poopit 
the  morn  after  a'." 

"  It  may  be,  it  may  be.  Ay,  ay,  look,  Leeby, 
whatna  bit  kimmer's  that  wi'  the  twa  jugs  in  her 
hand  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  Ou,  it'll  be  Lawyer  Ogilvy's  servant 
lassieky  gaen  to  the  farm  o'  T'nowhead  for  the 
milk.  She  gangs  ilka  Saturday  nicht.  But  what 
did  ye  say  —  twa  jugs  ?  Tod,  let's  see !  Ay,  she 
has  so,  a  big  jug  an'  a  little  ane.  The  little  ane  '11  be 
for  cream ;  an',  sal,  the  big  ane's  bigger  na  usual." 

"There  maun  be  something  gaen  on  at  the 
lawyer's  if  they're  buyin'  cream,  Leeby.  Their 
reg'lar  thing's  twopence  worth  o'  milk." 

"  Ay,  but  I  assure  ye  that  sma'  jug's  for  cream, 
an'  I  dinna  doot  mysel  but  'at  there's  to  be  fower- 
pence  worth  o'  milk  this  nicht." 

"  There's  to  be  a  puddin'  made  the  morn,  Leeby. 
Ou,  ay,  a'  thing  points  to  that ;  an'  we're  very  sure 
there's  nae  puddins  at  the  lawyer's  on  the  Sabbath 
onless  they  hae  company." 

"  I  dinna  ken  wha  they  can  hae,  if  it  be  na  that 
brither  o'  the  wife's  'at  bides  oot  by  Aberdeen," 

13 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"  Na,  it's  no  him,  Leeby ;  na,  na.  He's  no  weel 
to  do,  an'  they  wouldna  be  buyin'  cream  for  'im." 

"  I'll  run  up  to  the  attic  again,  an'  see  if  there's 
ony  stir  at  the  lawyer's  hoose." 

By  and  by  Leeby  returned  in  triumph. 

"  Ou,  ay,"  she  said,  "  they're  expectin'  veesitors 
at  the  lawyer's,  for  I  could  see  twa  o'  the  bairns 
dressed  up  to  the  nines,  an'  Mistress  Ogilvy  doesna 
dress  at  them  in  that  wy  for  naething." 

"  It  fair  beats  me  though,  Leeby,  to  guess  wha's 
comin'  to  them.  Ay,  but  stop  a  meenute,  I  wouldna 
wonder,  no,  really  I  would  not  wonder  but  what 
it'll  be  — " 

"The  very  thing  'at  was  passin'  through  my 
head,  mother." 

"  Ye  mean  'at  the  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to  bide  wi* 
the  lawyer  i'stead  o'  wi'  Sam'l  Duthie  ?  Sal,  am 
thinkin'  that's  it.  Ye  ken  Sam'l  an'  the  lawyer 
married  on  cousins ;  but  Mistress  Ogilvy  ay  lookit 
on  Chirsty  as  dirt  aneath  her  feet.  She  would  be 
glad  to  get  a  minister,  though,  to  the  hoose,  an'  so 
I  warrant  the  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to  bide  a'  nicht  at 
the  lawyer's." 

"  But  what  would  Chirsty  be  doin'  gettin'  the 
chintz  an'  the  fender  in  that  case  *?  " 

"  Ou,  she'd  been  expeckin'  the  lad,  of  course. 
Sal,  she'll  be  in  a  michty  tantrum  aboot  this.  I 
wouldna  wonder  though  she  gets  Sam'l  to  gang 
ower  to  the  U.  P's." 


ON  THE   TRACK  OF   THE  MINISTER 

Leeby  went  once  more  to  the  attic. 

"  Ye're  wrang,  mother,"  she  cried  out.  "  Wha- 
ever's  to  preach  the  morn  is  to  bide  at  the  manse, 
for  the  minister's  servant's  been  at  Baker  Duft's 
buy  in'  short-bread  —  half  a  lippy,  nae  doot." 

"  Are  ye  sure  o'  that,  Leeby  ?  " 

"  Oh,  am  certain.  The  servant  gaed  in  to  Duffs 
the  noo,  an',  as  ye  ken  fine,  the  manse  fowk  doesna 
deal  wi'  him,  except  they're  wantin'  short-bread. 
He's  Auld  Kirk." 

Leeby  returned  to  the  kitchen,  and  Jess  sat  for 
a  time  ruminating. 

"  The  lad  Wilkie,"  she  said  at  last,  triumphantly, 
"  '11  be  to  bide  at  Lawyer  Ogilvy's ;  but  he'll  be 
gaen  to  the  manse  the  morn  for  a  tea-dinner." 

"  But  what,"  asked  Leeby,  "  aboot  the  milk  an' 
the  cream  for  the  lawyer's  ?  " 

"  Ou,  they'll  be  hae'n  a  puddin'  for  the  supper 
the  nicht.  That's  a  michty  genteel  thing,  I've 
heard." 

It  turned  out  that  Jess  was  right  in  every  par- 
ticular. 


K 


CHAPTER   III 

PREPARING  TO  RECEIVE  COMPANY 

LEEBY  was  at  the  fire  brandering  a  quarter  of 
steak  on  the  tongs,  when  the  house  was  flung  into 
consternation  by  Hendry's  casual  remark  that  he 
had  seen  Tibbie  Mealmaker  in  the  town  with  her 
man. 

"  The  Lord  preserv's ! "  cried  Leeby. 

Jess  looked  quickly  at  the  clock. 

"  Half  fower ! "  she  said,  excitedly. 

"  Then  it  canna  be  dune,"  said  Leeby,  falling 
despairingly  into  a  chair,  "  for  they  may  be  here 
ony  meenute." 

"  It's  most  michty,"  said  Jess,  turning  on  her 
husband,  "  'at  ye  should  tak  a  pleasure  in  bringin' 
this  hoose  to  disgrace.  Hoo  did  ye  no  tell's  suner  *?  " 

"  I  fair  forgot,"  Hendry  answered,  "  but  what's 
a'  yer  steer  *?  " 

Jess  looked  at  me  (she  often  did  this)  in  a  way 
that  meant,  "  What  a  man  is  this  I'm  tied  to ! " 

"  Steer !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Is't  no  time  we  was 
makkin'  a  steer  *?  They'll  be  in  for  their  tea  ony 
meenute,  an'  the  room  no  sae  muckle  as  sweepit. 

16 


PREPARING   TO   RECEIVE   COMPANY 

Ay,  an'  me  lookin'  like  a  sweep;  an'  Tibbie 
Mealmaker  'at's  sae  partikler  genteel  seem'  you 
sic  a  sicht  as  ye  are  !  " 

Jess  shook  Hendry  out  of  his  chair,  while  Leeby 
began  to  sweep  with  the  one  hand,  and  agitatedly 
to  unbutton  her  wrapper  with  the  other. 

"  She  didna  see  me,"  said  Hendry,  sitting  down 
forlornly  on  the  table. 

"  Get  aff  that  table !  "  cried  Jess.  "  See  baud 
o'  the  besom,"  she  said  to  Leeby. 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  mother,"  said  Leeby,  "  gie 
yer  face  a  dicht,  an'  put  on  a  clean  mutch." 

"  I'll  open  the  door  if  they  come  afore  you're 
ready,"  said  Hendry,  as  Leeby  pushed  him  against 
the  dresser. 

"  Ye  daur  to  speak  aboot  openin'the  door,  an'  you 
sic  a  mess  !  "  cried  Jess,  with  pins  in  her  mouth. 

"  Havers ! "  retorted  Hendry.  "  A  man  canna 
be  aye  washin'  at  'imsel." 

Seeing  that  Hendry  was  as  much  in  the  way  as 
myself,  I  invited  him  upstairs  to  the  attic,  whence 
we  heard  Jess  and  Leeby  upbraiding  each  other 
shrilly.  I  was  aware  that  the  room  was  speckless ; 
but  for  all  that,  Leeby  was  turning  it  upside  down. 

"  She's  aye  ta'en  like  that,"  Hendry  said  to  me, 
referring  to  his  wife,  "when  she's  expectin' company. 
Ay,  it's  a  peety  she  canna  tak  things  cannier." 

"  Tibbie  Mealmaker  must  be  some  one  of  im- 
portance *?  "  I  asked. 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS 

"  Ou,  she's  naething  by  the  ord'nar' ;  but  ye 
see  she  was  mairit  to  a  Tilliedrum  man  no  lang 
syne,  an'  they're  said  to  hae  a  michty  grand 
establishment.  Ay,  they've  a  wardrobe  spleet  new ; 
an'  what  think  ye  Tibbie  wears  ilka  day  *?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  It  was  Chirsty  Miller  'at  put  it  through  the 
toon,"  Henry  continued.  "  Chirsty  was  in  Tillie- 
drum last  Teisday  or  Wednesday,  an'  Tibbie  gae 
her  a  cup  o'  tea.  Ay,  weel,  Tibbie  telt  Chirsty  'at 
she  wears  hose  ilka  day." 

"  Wears  hose  ?  " 

"  Ay.  It's  some  michty  grand  kind  o'  stockin'. 
I  never  heard  o't  in  this  toon.  Na,  there's  naebody 
in  Thrums  'at  wears  hose." 

"  And  who  did  Tibbie  get  ?  "  I  asked ;  for  in 
Thrums  they  say,  "  Wha  did  she  get  ?  "  and  " Wha 
did  he  tak  ?  " 

"  His  name's  Davit  Curly.  Ou,  a  crittur  fu'  o' 
maggots,  an'  nae  great  match,  for  he's  juist  the 
Tilliedrum  bill-sticker." 

At  this  moment  Jess  shouted  from  her  chair 
(she  was  burnishing  the  society  teapot  as  she 
spoke),  "  Mind,  Hendry  McQumpha,  'at  upon 
nae  condition  are  you  to  mention  the  bill-stickin' 
afore  Tibbie ! " 

"  Tibbie,"  Hendry  explained  to  me,  "  is  a  ter- 
rible vain  tid,  an'  doesna  think  the  bill-stickin' 
genteel.  Ay,  they  say  'at  if  she  meets  Davit  in 

18 


PREPARING   TO   RECEIVE  COMPANY 

the  street  wi'  his  paste-pot  an*  the  brush  in  his 
hands  she  pretends  no  to  ken  'im." 

Every  time  Jess  paused  to  think  she  cried  up 
orders,  such  as  — 

"  Dinna  call  her  Tibbie,  mind  ye.  Always  ad- 
dress her  as  Mistress  Curly." 

"  Shak'  hands  wi'  baith  o'  them,  an'  say  ye  hope 
they're  in  the  enjoyment  o'  guid  health." 

"  Dinna  put  yer  feet  on  the  table." 

"  Mind,  you're  no'  to  mention  'at  ye  kent  they 
were  in  the  toon." 

*'  When  onybody  passes  ye  yer  tea  say, '  Thank 
ye.' " 

"  Dinna  stir  yer  tea  as  if  ye  was  churnin'  butter, 
nor  let  on  'at  the  scones  is  no  our  ain  bakin'." 

"  If  Tibbie  says  onything  aboot  the  china  yer 
no'  to  say  'at  we  dinna  use  it  ilka  day." 

"  Dinna  lean  back  in  the  big  chair,  for  it's  broken, 
an'  Leeby's  gi'en  it  a  lick  o'  glue  this  meenute." 

"  When  Leeby  gies  ye  a  kick  aneath  the  table 
that'll  be  a  sign  to  ye  to  say  grace." 

Hendry  looked  at  me  apologetically  while  these 
instructions  came  up. 

"  I  winna  dive  my  head  wi'  sic  nonsense,"  he 
said ;  it's  no'  for  a  man  body  to  be  sae  crammed 
fu'  o'  manners." 

"  Come  awa  doon,"  Jess  shouted  to  him,  "  an* 
put  on  a  clean  dickey." 

"  I'll  better  do't  to  please  her,"  said  Hendry, 

19 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"  though  for  my  ain  part  I  dinna  like  the  feel  o* 
a  dickey  on  week-days.  Na,  they  mak's  think 
it's  the  Sabbath." 

Ten  minutes  afterwards  I  went  downstairs  to 
see  how  the  preparations  were  progressing.  Fresh 
muslin  curtains  had  been  put  up  in  the  room. 
The  grand  footstool,  worked  by  Leeby,  was  so 
placed  that  Tibbie  could  not  help  seeing  it ;  and  a 
fine  cambric  handkerchief,  of  which  Jess  was  very 
proud,  was  hanging  out  of  a  drawer  as  if  by  ac- 
cident. An  antimacassar  lying  carelessly  on  the 
seat  of  a  chair  concealed  a  rent  in  the  horse-hair, 
and  the  china  ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece  were 
so  placed  that  they  looked  whole.  Leeby's  black 
merino  was  hanging  near  the  window  in  a  good 
light,  and  Jess's  Sabbath  bonnet,  which  was  never 
worn,  occupied  a  nail  beside  it.  The  tea-things 
stood  on  a  tray  in  the  kitchen  bed,  whence  they 
could  be  quickly  brought  into  the  room,  just  as  if 
they  were  always  ready  to  be  used  daily.  Leeby, 
as  yet  in  deshabille,  was  shaving  her  father  at  a 
tremendous  rate,  and  Jess,  looking  as  fresh  as  a 
daisy,  was  ready  to  receive  the  visitors.  She  was 
peering  through  the  tiny  window-blind  looking  for 
them. 

"  Be  cautious,  Leeby,"  Hendry  was  saying,  when 
Jess  shook  her  hand  at  him.  "  Wheesht,"  she 
whispered  ;  "  they're  comin'." 

Hendry  was  hustled  into  his  Sabbath  coat,  and 

20 


PREPARING   TO   RECEIVE   COMPANY 

then  came  a  tap  at  the  door,  a  very  genteel  tap. 
Jess  nodded  to  Leeby,  who  softly  shoved  Hendry 
into  the  room. 

The  tap  was  repeated,  but  Leeby  pushed  her 
father  into  a  chair  and  thrust  Barrow's  Sermons 
open  into  his  hand.  Then  she  stole  but  the 
house,  and  swiftly  buttoned  her  wrapper,  speaking 
to  Jess  by  nods  the  while.  There  was  a  third 
knock,  whereupon  Jess  said,  in  a  loud,  Englishy 
voice  — 

"  Was  that  not  a  chap  (knock)  at  the  door  ?  " 

Hendry  was  about  to  reply,  but  she  shook  her 
fist  at  him.  Next  moment  Leeby  opened  the  door. 
I  was  upstairs,  but  I  heard  Jess  say  — 

"  Dear  me,  if  it's  not  Mrs.  Curly  —  and  Mr. 
Curly !     And  hoo  are  ye  ?     Come  in,  by.     Wee 
this  is,  indeed,  a  pleasant  surprise  ! " 


21 


CHAPTER  IV 

WAITING  FOR  THE  DOCTOR 

JESS  had  gone  early  to  rest,  and  the  door  of  her 
bed  in  the  kitchen  was  pulled  to.  From  her  win- 
dow I  saw  Hendry  buying  dulse. 

Now  and  again  the  dulseman  wheeled  his  slimy 
boxes  to  the  top  of  the  brae,  and  sat  there  stolidly 
on  the  shafts  of  his  barrow.  Many  passed  him  by, 
but  occasionally  some  one  came  to  rest  by  his  side. 
Unless  the  customer  was  loquacious,  there  was  no 
bandying  of  words,  and  Hendry  merely  unbuttoned 
his  east-trouser  pocket,  giving  his  body  the  angle 
at  which  the  pocket  could  be  most  easily  filled  by 
the  dulseman.  He  then  deposited  his  half-penny, 
and  moved  on.  Neither  had  spoken;  yet  in  the 
country  they  would  have  roared  their  predictions 
about  to-morrow  to  a  ploughman  half  a  field  away. 

Dulse  is  roasted  by  twisting  it  round  the  tongs 
fired  to  a  red-heat,  and  the  house  was  soon  heavy 
with  the  smell  of  burning  sea-weed.  Leeby  was  at 
the  dresser  munching  it  from  a  broth-plate,  while 
Hendry,  on  his  knees  at  the  fireplace,  gingerly  tore 

22 


WAITING   FOR   THE   DOCTOR 

off  the  blades  of  dulse  that  were  sticking  to  the 
tongs,  and  licked  his  singed  fingers. 

"  Whaur's  yer  mother  ?  "  he  asked  Leeby. 

"  Ou,"  said  Leeby,  "  whaur  would  she  be  but  in 
her  bed?" 

Hendry  took  the  tongs  to  the  door,  and  would 
have  cleaned  them  himself,  had  not  Leeby  (who 
often  talked  his  interfering  ways  over  with  her 
mother)  torn  them  from  his  hands. 

"  Leeby  ! "  cried  Jess  at  that  moment. 

"  Ay,"  answered  Leeby,  leisurely,  not  noticing, 
as  I  happened  to  do,  that  Jess  spoke  in  an  agitated 
voice. 

"  What  is't  ?  "  asked  Hendry,  who  liked  to  be 
told  things. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  bed. 

"  Yer  mother's  no  weel,"  he  said  to  Leeby. 

Leeby  ran  to  the  bed,  and  I  went  ben  the  house. 

In  another  two  minutes  we  were  a  group  of  four 
in  the  kitchen,  staring  vacantly.  Death  could  not 
have  startled  us  more,  tapping  thrice  that  quiet 
night  on  the  window-pane. 

"  It's  diphtheria ! "  said  Jess,  her  hands  trem- 
bling as  she  buttoned  her  wrapper. 

She  looked  at  me,  and  Leeby  looked  at  me. 

"  It's  no,  it's  no,"  cried  Leeby,  and  her  voice 
was  as  a  fist  shaken  at  my  face.  She  blamed  me 
for  hesitating  in  my  reply.  But  ever  since  this 
malady  left  me  a  lonely  dominie  for  life,  diphtheria 

23 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

has  been  a  knockdown  word  for  me.  Jess  had 
discovered  a  great  white  spot  on  her  throat.  I 
knew  the  symptoms. 

."  Is't  dangerous  ? "  asked  Hendry,  who  once 
had  a  headache  years  before,  and  could  still  refer 
to  it  as  a  reminiscence. 

"  Them  'at  has  't  never  recovers,"  said  Jess,  sit- 
ting down  very  quietly.  A  stick  fell  from  the  fire, 
and  she  bent  forward  to  replace  it. 

"  They  do  recover,"  cried  Leeby,  again  turning 
angry  eyes  on  me. 

I  could  not  face  her;  I  had  known  so  many 
who  did  not  recover.  She  put  her  hand  on  her 
mother's  shoulder. 

"  Mebbe  ye  would  be  better  in  yer  bed,"  sug- 
gested Hendry. 

No  one  spoke. 

"  When  I  had  the  headache,"  said  Hendry,  "  I 
was  better  in  my  bed." 

Leeby  had  taken  Jess's  hand  —  a  worn  old  hand 
that  had  many  a  time  gone  out  in  love  and  kind- 
ness when  younger  hands  were  cold.  Poets  have 
sung  and  fighting  men  have  done  great  deeds  .for 
hands  that  never  had  such  a  record. 

"  If  ye  could  eat  something,"  said  Hendry,  "  I 
would  gae  to  the  flesher's  for  't.  I  mind  when  I 
had  the  headache,  hoo  a  small  steak  —  " 

"Gae  awa  for  the  doctor,  rayther,"  broke  in 
Leeby. 

24 


WAITING  FOR   THE   DOCTOR 

Jess  started,  for  sufferers  think  there  is  less  hope 
for  them  after  the  doctor  has  been  called  in  to 
pronounce  sentence. 

"  I  winna  hae  the  doctor,"  she  said,  anxiously. 

In  answer  to  Leeby's  nods,  Hendry  slowly  pulled 
out  his  boots  from  beneath  the  table,  and  sat  look- 
ing at  them,  preparatory  to  putting  them  on.  He 
was  beginning  at  last  to  be  a  little  scared,  though 
his  face  did  not  show  it. 

"  I  winna  hae  ye,"  cried  Jess,  getting  to  her 
feet,  "  ga'en  to  the  doctor's  sic  a  sicht.  Yer  coat's 
a'  yarn." 

"  Havers,"  said  Hendry,  but  Jess  became  frantic. 

I  offered  to  go  for  the  doctor,  but  while  I  was 
up-stairs  looking  for  my  bonnet  I  heard  the  door 
slam.  Leeby  had  become  impatient,  and  darted 
off  herself,  buttoning  her  jacket  probably  as  she 
ran.  When  I  returned  to  the  kitchen,  Jess  and 
Hendry  were  still  by  the  fire.  Hendry  was  beating 
a  charred  stick  into  sparks,  and  his  wife  sat  with  her 
hands  in  her  lap.  I  saw  Hendry  look  at  her  once 
or  twice,  but  he  could  think  of  nothing  to  say. 
His  terms  of  endearment  had  died  out  thirty-nine 
years  before  with  his  courtship.  He  had  forgotten 
the  words.  For  his  life  he  could  not  have  crossed 
over  to  Jess  and  put  his  arm  round  her.  Yet  he 
was  uneasy.  His  eyes  wandered  round  the  poorly 
lit  room. 

"  Will  ye  hae  a  drink  o'  watter  $  "  he  asked. 
25 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  outside. 

"  That'll  be  him,"  said  Hendry  in  a  whisper. 

Jess  started  to  her  feet,  and  told  Hendry  to  help 
her  ben  the  house. 

The  steps  died  away,  but  I  fancied  that  Jess, 
now  highly  strung,  had  gone  into  hiding,  and  I 
went  after  her.  I  was  mistaken.  She  had  lit  the 
room  lamp,  turning  the  crack  in  the  globe  to  the 
wall.  The  sheepskin  hearthrug,  which  was  gener- 
ally carefully  packed  away  beneath  the  bed,  had 
been  spread  out  before  the  empty  fireplace,  and 
Jess  was  on  the  arm-chair  hurriedly  putting  on  her 
grand  black  mutch  with  the  pink  flowers. 

"  I  was  juist  makkin'  mysel  respectable,"  she 
said,  but  without  life  in  her  voice. 

This  was  the  only  time  I  ever  saw  her  in  the 
room. 

Leeby  returned  panting  to  say  that  the  doctor 
might  be  expected  in  an  hour.  He  was  away 
among  the  hills. 

The  hour  passed  reluctantly.  Leeby  lit  a  fire 
ben  the  house,  and  then  put  on  her  Sabbath  dress. 
She  sat  with  her  mother  in  the  room.  Never  be- 
fore had  I  seen  Jess  sit  so  quietly,  for  her  way  was 
to  work  until,  as  she  said  herself,  she  was  ready 
"  to  fall  into  her  bed." 

Hendry  wandered  between  the  two  rooms,  always 
in  the  way  when  Leeby  ran  to  the  window  to  see 
if  that  was  the  doctor  at  last.  He  would  stand 

26 


WAITING   FOR   THE   DOCTOR 

gaping  in  the  middle  of  the  room  for  five  minutes, 
then  slowly  withdraw  to  stand  as  drearily  but  the 
house.  His  face  lengthened.  At  last  he  sat  down 
by  the  kitchen  fire,  a  Bible  in  his  hand.  It  lay 
open  on  his  knee,  but  he  did  not  read  much.  He 
sat  there  with  his  legs  outstretched,  looking  straight 
before  him.  I  believe  he  saw  Jess  young  again. 
His  face  was  very  solemn,  and  his  mouth  twitched. 
The  fire  sank  into  ashes  unheeded. 

I  sat  alone  at  my  attic  window  for  hours,  wait- 
ing for  the  doctor.  From  the  attic  I  could  see 
nearly  all  Thrums,  but,  until  very  late,  the  night 
was  dark,  and  the  brae,  except  immediately  be- 
fore the  door,  was  blurred  and  dim.  A  sheet  of 
light  canopied  the  square  as  long  as  a  cheap  Jack 
paraded  his  goods  there.  It  was  gone  before  the 
moon  came  out.  Figures  tramped,  tramped  up 
the  brae,  passed  the  house  in  shadow  and  stole 
silently  on.  A  man  or  boy  whistling  seemed  to 
fill  the  valley.  The  moon  arrived  too  late  to  be 
of  service  to  any  wayfarer.  Everybody  in  Thrums 
was  asleep  but  ourselves,  and  the  doctor  who  never 
came. 

About  midnight  Hendry  climbed  the  attic  stair 
and  joined  me  at  the  window.  His  hand  was 
shaking  as  he  pulled  back  the  blind.  I  began  to 
realize  that  his  heart  could  still  overflow. 

"  She's  waur,"  he  whispered,  like  one  who  had 
lost  his  voice. 

27 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  silently,  his  hand  on  the 
blind.  He  was  so  different  from  the  Hendry  I 
had  known,  that  I  felt  myself  in  the  presence  of  a 
strange  man.  His  eyes  were  glazed  with  staring 
at  the  turn  of  the  brae  where  the  doctor  must  first 
come  into  sight.  His  breathing  became  heavier, 
till  it  was  a  gasp.  Then  I  put  my  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  he  stared  at  me. 

"  Nine-and-thirty  years  come  June,"  he  said, 
speaking  to  himself. 

For  this  length  of  time,  I  knew,  he  and  Jess 
had  been  married.  He  repeated  the  words  at 
intervals. 

"  I  mind  —  "  he  began,  and  stopped.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  spring-time  of  Jess's  life. 

The  night  ended  as  we  watched ;  then  came  the 
terrible  moment  that  precedes  the  day  —  the  mo- 
ment known  to  shuddering  watchers  by  sick-beds, 
when  a  chill  wind  cuts  through  the  house,  and  the 
world  without  seems  cold  in  death.  It  is  as  if  the 
heart  of  the  earth  did  not  mean  to  continue  beating. 

"  This  is  a  fearsome  nicht,"  Hendry  said, 
hoarsely. 

He  turned  to  grope  his  way  to  the  stairs,  but 
suddenly  went  down  on  his  knees  to  pray.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  quick  step  outside.  I  arose  in  time 
to  see  the  doctor  on  the  brae.  He  tried  the  latch, 
but  Leeby  was  there  to  show  him  in.  The  door 
of  the  room  closed  on  him. 

28 


WAITING   FOR   THE   DOCTOR 

From  the  top  of  the  stair  I  could  see  into  the 
dark  passage,  and  make  out  Hendry  shaking  at 
the  door.  I  could  hear  the  doctor's  voice,  but  not 
the  words  he  said.  There  was  a  painful  silence, 
and  then  Leeby  laughed  joyously. 

"•  It's  gone,"  cried  Jess  ;  "  the  white  spot's  gone ! 
Ye  juist  touched  it,  an'  it's  gone  !  Tell  Hendry." 

But  Hendry  did  not  need  to  be  told.  As  Jess 
spoke  I  heard  him  say,  huskily :  "  Thank  God ! " 
and  then  he  tottered  back  to  the  kitchen.  When 
the  doctor  left,  Hendry  was  still  on  Jess's  arm- 
chair, trembling  like  a  man  with  the  palsy.  Ten 
minutes  afterwards  I  was  preparing  for  bed,  when 
he  cried  up  the  stair  — 

"  Come  awa'  doon." 

I  joined  the  family  party  in  the  room :  Hendry 
was  sitting  close  to  Jess. 

"  Let  us  read,"  he  said,  firmly,  "  in  the  fourteenth 
of  John." 


2Q 


CHAPTER   V 

A  HUMORIST  ON  HIS  CALLING 

AFTER  the  eight  o'clock  bell  had  rung,  Hendry 
occasionally  crossed  over  to  the  farm  of  T'nowhead 
and  sat  on  the  pig-sty.  If  no  one  joined  him  he 
scratched  the  pig,  and  returned  home  gradually. 
Here  what  was  almost  a  club  held  informal  meet- 
ings, at  which  two  or  four,  or  even  half  a  dozen 
assembled  to  debate,  when  there  was  any  one  to 
start  them.  The  meetings  were  only  memorable 
when  Tammas  Haggart  was  in  fettle,  to  pronounce 
judgments  in  his  well-known  sarcastic  way.  Some- 
times we  had  got  off  the  pig-sty  to  separate  before 
Tammas  was  properly  yoked.  There  we  might 
remain  a  long  time,  planted  round  him  like  trees, 
for  he  was  a  mesmerising  talker. 

There  was  a  pail  belonging  to  the  pig-sty,  which 
some  one  would  turn  bottom  upwards  and  sit 
upon  if  the  attendance  was  unusually  numerous. 
Tammas  liked,  however,  to  put  a  foot  on  it  now 
and  again  in  the  full  swing  of  a  harangue,  and 
when  he  paused  for  a  sarcasm  I  have  seen  the  pail 
kicked  toward  him.  He  had  the  wave  of  the  arm 

30 


A   HUMORIST   ON   HIS   CALLING 

that  is  so  convincing  in  argument,  and  such  a 
natural  way  of  asking  questions,  that  an  audience 
not  used  to  public  speaking  might  have  thought 
he  wanted  them  to  reply.  It  is  an  undoubted  fact, 
that  when  he  went  on  the  platform,  at  the  time  of 
the  election,  to  heckle  the  Colonel,  he  paused  in  the 
middle  of  his  questions  to  take  a  drink  out  of  the 
tumbler  of  water  which  stood  on  the  table.  As 
soon  as  they  saw  what  he  was  up  to,  the  spectators 
raised  a  ringing  cheer. 

On  concluding  his  perorations,  Tammas  sent 
his  snuff-mull  round,  but  we  had  our  own  way  of 
passing  him  a  vote  of  thanks.  One  of  the  com- 
pany would  express  amazement  at  his  gift  of 
words,  and  the  others  would  add,  "  Man,  man,"  or 
"  Ye  cow,  Tammas,"  or,  "  What  a  crittur  ye  are ! " 
all  which  ejaculations  meant  the  same  thing.  A 
new  subject  being  thus  ingeniously  introduced, 
Tammas  again  put  his  foot  on  the  pail. 

"  I  tak  no  creedit,"  he  said,  modestly,  on  the 
evening,  I  remember,  of  Willie  Pyatt's  funeral, 
"  in  bein'  able  to  speak  wi'  a  sort  o'  faceelity  on 
topics  'at  I've  made  my  ain." 

"  Ay,"  said  T'nowhead,  "  but  it's  no  the  faceelity 
o'  speakin'  'at  taks  me.  There's  Davit  Lunan  'at 
can  speak  like  as  if  he  had  learned  it  aff  a  paper, 
an'  yet  I  canna  thole  'im." 

"  Davit,"  said  Hendry,  "  doesna  speak  in  a  wy 
'at  a  body  can  follow  'im.  He  doesna  gae  even 

31 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

on.  Jess  says  he's  juist  like  a  man  ay  at  the 
cross-roads,  an'  no  sure  o'  his  wy.  But  the  stock 
has  words,  an'  no  ilka  body  has  that." 

"  If  I  was  bidden  to  put  Tammas's  gift  in  a 
word,"  said  T'nowhead, "  I  would  say  'at  he  had  a 
wy.  That's  what  I  would  say." 

"  Weel,  I  suppose  I  have,"  Tammas  admitted, 
"  but,  wy  or  no  wy,  I  couldna  put  a  point  on  my 
words  if  it  wasna  for  my  sense  o'  humour.  Lads, 
humour's  what  gies  the  nip  to  speakin'." 

"  It's  what  maks  ye  a  sarcesticist,  Tammas," 
said  Hendry ;  "  but  what  I  wonder  at  is  yer  sayin' 
the  humorous  things  sae  aisy  like.  Some  says  ye 
mak  them  up  aforehand,  but  I  ken  that's  no  true." 

"No  only  is't  no  true,"  said  Tammas,  "but  it 
couldna  be  true.  Them  'at  says  sic  things,  an', 
weel  I  ken  you're  meanin'  Davit  Lunan,  hasna  nae 
idea  o'  what  humour  is.  It's  a  think  'at  spouts 
oot  o'  its  ain  accord.  Some  of  the  maist  humorous 
things  I've  ever  said  cam  oot,  as  a  body  may  say, 
by  themsels." 

"  I  suppose  that's  the  case,"  said  T'nowhead, 
"  an'  yet  it  maun  be  you  'at  brings  them  up  *?  " 

"  There's  no  nae  doubt  aboot  its  bein'  the  case," 
said  Tammas,  "for  I've  watched  mysel  often. 
There  was  a  vara  guid  instance  occurred  sune 
after  I  married  Easie.  The  Earl's  son  met  me  one 
day,  aboot  that  time,  i'  the  Tenements,  and  he 
didna  ken  'at  Chirsty  was  deid,  an'  I'd  married 


A   HUMORIST   ON   HIS   CALLING 

again.  '  Well,  Haggart,'  he  says,  in  his  frank  wy, 
*  and  how  is  your  wife  ? '  *  She's  vara  weel,  sir,'  I 
maks  answer,  'but  she's  no  the  ane  you  mean.'" 

"  Na,  he  meant  Chirsty,"  said  Hendry. 

"  Is  that  a'  the  story  ?  "  asked  T'nowhead. 

Tammas  had  been  looking  at  us  queerly. 

"  There's  no  nane  o'  ye  lauchin',"  he  said,  "  but 
I  can  assure  ye  the  Earl's  son  gaed  east  the  toon 
lauchin'  like  onything." 

"  But  what  was't  he  lauched  at  *?  " 

"  Ou,"  said  Tammas,  "  a  humorist  doesna  tell 
whaur  the  humour  comes  in." 

"  No,  but  when  you  said  that,  did  you  mean  it 
to  be  humorous  *?  " 

"  Am  no  sayin'  I  did,  but  as  I've  been  tellin'  ye, 
humour  spouts  oot  by  itsel." 

"  Ay,  but  do  ye  ken  noo  what  the  Earl's  son 
gaed  awa  lauchin'  at  ?  " 

Tammas  hesitated. 

"  I  dinna  exactly  see't,"  he  confessed,  "  but  that's 
no  an  oncommon  thing.  A  humorist  would  often 
no  ken  'at  he  was  ane  if  it  wasna  by  the  wy  he 
makes  other  fowk  lauch.  A  body  canna  be  ex- 
peckit  baith  to  mak  the  joke  an'  to  see't.  Na, 
that  would  be  doin'  twa  fowks'  wark." 

"  Weel,  that's  reasonable  enough,  but  I  have 
often  seen  ye  lauchin',"  said  Hendry,  "  lang  afore 
other  fowk  lauched." 

"Nae  doubt,"  Tammas  explained,  "an'  thafs 

33 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

because  humour  has  twa  sides,  juist  like  a  penny 
piece.  When  I  say  a  humorous  thing  mysel  I'm 
dependent  on  other  fowk  to  tak  note  o'  the  humour 
o't,  bein'  mysel  ta;en  up  wi'  the  makkin'  o't.  Ay, 
but  there's  things  I  see  an'  hear  'at  maks  me  lauch, 
an'  that's  the  other  side  o'  humour." 

"  I  never  heard  it  put  sae  plain  afore,"  said 
T'nowhead,  "an',  sal,  am  no  nane  sure  but  what 
am  a  humorist  too." 

"Na,  na,  no  you,  T'nowhead,"  said  Tammas, 
hotly. 

"  Weel,"  continued  the  farmer,  "  I  never  set  up 
for  bein'  a  humorist,  but  I  can  juist  assure  ye  'at  I 
lauch  at  queer  things  too.  No  lang  syne  I  woke 
up  i'  my  bed  lauchin'  like  onything,  an'  Lisbeth 
thocht  I  wasna  weel.  It  was  something  I  dreamed 
'at  made  me  lauch,  I  couldna  think  what  it  was, 
but  I  laughed  richt.  Was  that  no  fell  like  a  hu- 
morist ?  " 

"  That  was  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Tammas. 
"  Na,  dreams  dinna  coont,  for  we're  no  responsible 
for  them.  Ay,  an'  what's  mair,  the  mere  lauchin's 
no  the  important  side  o'  humour,  even  though  ye 
hinna  to  be  telt  to  lauch.  The  important  side's 
the  other  side,  the  sayin'  the  humorous  things.  I'll 
tell  ye  what :  the  humorist's  like  a  man  firm'  at  a 
target  —  he  doesna  ken  whether  he  hits  or  no  till 
them  at  the  target  tells  }im." 

"  I  would  be  of  opeenion,"  said  Hendry,  who  was 

34 


A   HUMORIST   ON   HIS   CALLING 

one  of  Tammas's  most  staunch  admirers,  "  'at  an- 
other mark  o'  the  rale  humorist  was  his  seein'  hu- 
mour in  all  things  ?  " 

Tammas  shook  his  head  —  a  way  he  had  when 
Hendry  advanced  theories. 

"  I  dinna  haud  wi'  that  ava,"  he  said.  "  I  ken 
fine  'at  Davit  Lunan  gaes  aboot  sayin'  he  sees  hu- 
mour in  everything,  but  there's  nae  surer  sign  'at 
he's  no  a  genuine  humorist.  Na,  the  rale  humorist 
kens  vara  weel  'at  there's  subjects  withoot  a  spark 
o'  humour  in  them.  When  a  subject  rises  to  the 
sublime  it  should  be  regairded  philosophically, 
an*  no  humorously.  Davit  would  lauch  'at  the 
grandest  thochts,  whaur  they  only  fill  the  true 
humorist  wi'  awe.  I've  found  it  necessary  to  re- 
buke 'im  at  times  whaur  his  lauchin'  was  oot  o' 
place.  He  pretended  aince  on  this  vara  spot  to 
see  humour  i'  the  origin  o'  cock-fightin'." 

"  Did  he,  man  ?  "  said  Hendry ;  "  I  wasna  here. 
But  what  is  the  origin  o'  cock-fechtin'  ?  " 

" It  was  a'  i'  the  Cheap  Magazine"  said  T'now- 
head. 

"  Was  I  sayin'  it  wasna  ?  "  demanded  Tammas. 
*'  It  was  through  me  readin'  the  account  oot  o'  the 
Cheap  Magazine  'at  the  discussion  arose." 

"But  what  said  the  Cheapy  was  the  origin  o' 
cock-fechtin'  ?  " 

"T'nowhead  '11  tell  ye,"  answered  Tammas; 
"he  says  I  dinna  ken." 

35 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"  I  never  said  naething  o'  the  kind,"  returned 
T'nowhead,  indignantly;  "I  mind  o' ye  readin't 
oot  fine." 

"  Ay,  weel,"  said  Tammas,  "  that's  a'  richt.  Ou, 
the  origin  o'  cock-fightin'  gangs  back  to  the  time 
o'  the  Greek  wars,  a  thoosand  or  twa  years  syne, 
mair  or  less.  There  was  ane,  Miltiades  by  name, 
'at  was  the  captain  o'  the  Greek  army,  an'  one  day 
he  led  them  doon  the  mountains  to  attack  the 
biggest  army  'at  was  ever  gathered  thegither." 

"  They  were  Persians,"  interposed  T'nowhead. 

"  Are  you  tellin'  the  story,  or  am  I  ?  "  asked 
Tammas.  "  I  kent  fine  'at  they  were  Persians. 
Weel,  Miltiades  had  the  matter  o'  twenty  thoo- 
sand men  wi'  im',  and  when  they  got  to  the  foot 
o'  the  mountain,  behold  there  was  two  cocks 
fechtin'." 

"  Man,  man,"  said  Hendry,  "  an'  was  there  cocks 
in  thae  days  ?  " 

"  Ondoubtedly,"  said  Tammas,  "  or  hoo  could 
thae  twa  hae  been  fechtin'  ?  " 

"  Ye  have  me  there,  Tammas,"  admitted  Hen- 
dry.  "  Ye're  perfectly  richt." 

"  Ay,  then,"  continued  the  stone-breaker,  "  when 
Miltiades  saw  the  cocks  at  it  wi'  all  their  micht, 
he  stopped  the  army  and  addressed  it.  '  Behold ! ' 
he  cried,  at  the  top  o'  his  voice,  *  these  cocks  do 
not  fight  for  their  household  gods,  nor  for  the 
monuments  of  their  ancestors,  nor  for  glory,  nor 


A  HUMORIST   ON   HIS   CALLING 

for  liberty,  nor  for  their  children,  but  only  because 
the  one  will  not  give  way  unto  the  other.' " 

"  It  was  nobly  said,"  declared  Hendry ;  "  na, 
cocks  wouldna  hae  sae  muckle  understandin'  as 
to  fecht  for  thae  things.  I  wouldna  wonder  but 
what  it  was  some  laddies  'at  set  them  at  ane 
another/ 

"  Hendry  doesna  see  what  Miltydes  was  after," 
said  T'nowhead. 

"  Ye've  taen't  up  wrang,  Hendry,"  Tammas  ex- 
plained. "  What  Miltiades  meant  was  'at  if  cocks 
could  fecht  sae  weel  oot  o'  mere  deviltry,  surely 
the  Greeks  would  fecht  terrible  for  their  gods  an' 
their  bairns  an'  the  other  things." 

"  I  see,  I  see ;  but  what  was  the  monuments  of 
their  ancestors  ?  " 

"Ou,  that  was  the  gravestanes  they  put  up  i' 
their  kirkyards." 

"  I  wonder  the  other  billies  would  want  to  tak 
them  awa.  They  would  be  a  michty  wecht." 

"  Ay,  but  they  wanted  them,  an'  nat'rally  the 
Greeks  stuck  to  the  stanes  they  paid  for." 

"  So,  so,  an'  did  Davit  Lunan  mak  oot  'at  there 
was  humour  in  that  ?  " 

"  He  do  so.  He  said  it  was  a  humorous  thing 
to  think  o'  a  hale  army  lookin'  on  at  twa  cocks 
fechtin'.  I  assure  ye  I  telt  'im  'at  I  saw  nae 
humour  in't.  It  was  ane  o'  the  most  impressive 
sichts  ever  seen  by  man,  an'  the  Greeks  was  sae 

37 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

inspired  by  what  Miltiades  said  'at  they  sweepit 
the  Persians  oot  o'  their  country." 

We  all  agreed  that  Tammas's  was  the  genuine 
humour. 

"  An'  an  enviable  possession  it  is,"  said  Hendry. 

"  In  a  wy,"  admitted  Tammas,  "  but  no  in  a' 
wys." 

He  hesitated,  and  then  added  in  a  low  voice  — 

"  As  sure  as  death,  Hendry,  it  sometimes  taks 
grip  o'  me  i'  the  kirk  itsel,  an'  I  can  hardly  keep 
frae  lauchin'." 


CHAPTER  VI 

DEAD   THIS   TWENTY   YEARS 

IN  the  lustiness  of  youth  there  are  many  who  can- 
not feel  that  they,  too,  will  die.  The  first  fear 
stops  the  heart.  Even  then  they  would  keep  death 
at  arm's  length  by  making  believe  to  disown  him. 
Loved  ones  are  taken  away,  and  the  boy,  the 
girl,  will  not  speak  of  them,  as  if  that  made  the 
conqueror's  triumph  the  less.  In  time  the  fire  in 
the  breast  burns  low,  and  then  in  the  last  glow  of 
the  embers,  it  is  sweeter  to  hold  to  what  has  been 
than  to  think  of  what  may  be. 

Twenty  years  had  passed  since  Joey  ran  down 
the  brae  to  play.  Jess,  his  mother,  shook  her  staff 
fondly  at  him.  A  cart  rumbled  by,  the  driver 
nodding  on  the  shaft.  It  rounded  the  corner  and 
stopped  suddenly,  and  then  a  woman  screamed. 
A  handful  of  men  carried  Joey's  dead  body  to  his 
mother,  and  that  was  the  tragedy  of  Jess's  life. 

Twenty  years  ago,  and  still  Jess  sat  at  the 
window,  and  still  she  heard  that  woman  scream. 
Every  other  living  being  had  forgotten  Joey;  even 
to  Hendry  he  was  now  scarcely  a  name,  but  there 

39 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

were  times  when  Jess's  face  quivered  and  her  old 
arms  went  out  for  her  dead  boy. 

"God's  will  be  done,"  she  said,  "but  oh,  I 
grudged  Him  my  bairn  terrible  sair.  I  dinna 
want  him  back  noo,  an'  ilka  day  is  takkin'  me 
nearer  to  him,  but  for  mony  a  lang  year  I  grudged 
him  sair,  sair.  He  was  juist  five  minutes  gone, 
an'  they  brocht  him  back  deid,  my  Joey." 

On  the  Sabbath  day  Jess  could  not  go  to  church, 
and  it  was  then,  I  think,  that  she  was  with  Joey 
most.  There  was  often  a  blessed  serenity  on  her 
face  when  we  returned,  that  only  comes  to  those 
who  have  risen  from  their  knees  with  their  prayers 
answered.  Then  she  was  very  close  to  the  boy 
who  died.  Long  ago  she  could  not  look  out  from 
her  window  upon  the  brae,  but  now  it  was  her  seat 
in  church.  There  on  the  Sabbath  evenings  she 
sometimes  talked  to  me  of  Joey. 

"  It's  been  a  fine  day,"  she  would  say,  "juist  like 
that  day.  I  thank  the  Lord  for  the  sunshine  noo, 
but  oh,  I  thocht  at  the  time  I  couldna  look  at  the 
sun  shinin'  again." 

"  In  all  Thrums,"  she  has  told  me,  and  I  know 
it  to  be  true,  "  there's  no  a  better  man  than 
Hendry.  There's  them  'at's  cleverer  in  the  wys 
o'  the  world,  but  my  man,  Hendry  McQumpha, 
never  did  naething  in  all  his  life  'at  wasna  weel 
intended,  an'  though  his  words  is  common,  it's  to 
the  Lord  he  looks.  I  canna  think  but  what 

40 


Hendry's  pleasin'  to  God.  Oh,  I  dinna  ken  what 
to  say  wi'  thankfulness  to  Him  when  I  mind  hoo 
guid  he's  been  to  me.  There's  Leeby  'at  I  couldna 
hae  done  withoot,  me  bein  sae  silly  (weak  bodily), 
an'  ay  Leeby's  stuck  by  me  an'  gien  up  her  life,  as 
ye  micht  say,  for  me.  Jamie  —  " 

But  then  Jess  sometimes  broke  down. 

"  He's  so  far  awa,"  she  said,  after  a  time,  "  an' 
aye  when  he  gangs  back  to  London  after  his  holi- 
days he  has  a  fear  he'll  never  see  me  again,  but 
he's  terrified  to  mention  it,  an'  I  juist  ken  by  the 
wy  he  taks  haud  o'  me,  an'  comes  runnin'  back  to 
tak  haud  o'  me  again.  I  ken  fine  what  he's 
thinkin',  but  I  daurna  speak. 

"  Guid  is  no  word  for  what  Jamie  has  been  to 
me,  but  he  wasna  born  till  after  Joey  died.  When 
we  got  Jamie,  Hendry  took  to  whistlin'  again  at 
the  loom,  an'  Jamie  juist  filled  Joey's  place  to 
him.  Ay,  but  naebody  could  fill  Joey's  place  to 
me.  It's  different  to  a  man.  A  bairn's  no  the 
same  to  him,  but  a  fell  bit  o'  me  was  buried  in  my 
laddie's  grave. 

"  Jamie  an'  Joey  was  never  nane  the  same  na- 
ture. It  was  aye  something  in  a  shop,  Jamie 
wanted  to  be,  an'  he  never  cared  muckle  for  his 
books,  but  Joey  hankered  after  being  a  minister, 
young  as  he  was,  an'  a  minister  Hendry  an'  me 
would  hae  done  our  best  to  mak  him.  Mony, 
mony  a  time  after  he  came  in  frae  the  kirk  on  the 

41 


A  WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

Sabbath  he  would  stand  up  at  this  very  window 
and  wave  his  hands  in  a  reverent  way,  juist  like 
the  minister.  His  first  text  was  to  be  '  Thou  God 
seest  me.' 

"  Ye'll  wonder  at  me,  but  I've  sat  here  in  the 
lang  fore-nichts  dreamin'  'at  Joey  was  a  grown  man 
noo,  an*  'at  I  was  puttin'  on  my  bonnet  to  come  to 
the  kirk  to  hear  him  preach.  Even  as  far  back  as 
twenty  years  an'  mair  I  wasna  able  to  gang  aboot, 
but  Joey  would  say  to  me,  '  We'll  get  a  carriage 
to  ye,  mother,  so  'at  ye  can  come  and  hear  me 
preach  on  "  Thou  God  seest  me." '  He  would 
say  to  me,  '  It  doesna  do,  mother,  for  the  minister 
in  the  pulpit  to  nod  to  ony  of  the  fowk,  but  I'll 
gie  you  a  look  an'  ye'll  ken  it's  me.'  Oh,  Joey, 
I  would  hae  gien  you  a  look  too,  an'  ye  would 
hae  kent  what  I  was  thinkin'.  He  often  said, 
'  Ye'll  be  proud  o'  me,  will  ye  no,  mother,  when 
ye  see  me  comin'  sailin'  alang  to  the  pulpit  in  my 
gown  *? '  So  I  would  hae  been  proud  o'  him,  an' 
I  was  proud  to  hear  him  speakin'  o't.  '  The  other 
fowk,'  he  said,  *  will  be  sittin'  in  their  seats  won- 
derin'  what  my  text's  to  be,  but  you'll  ken,  mother, 
an'  you'll  turn  up  to  "  Thou  God  seest  me,"  afore 
I  gie  oot  the  chapter.'  Ay,  but  that  day  he  was 
coffined,  for  all  the  minister  prayed,  I  found  it  hard 
to  say, '  Thou  God  seest  me.'  It's  the  text  I  like 
best  noo,  though,  an'  when  Hendry  an'  Leeby  is 
at  the  kirk,  I  turn't  up  often,  often  in  the  Bible. 

42 


DEAD   THIS   TWENTY   YEARS 

I  read  frae  the  beginnin'  o*  the  chapter,  but  when 
I  come  to  '  Thou  God  seest  me,'  I  stop.  Na,  it's 
no  'at  there's  ony  rebellion  to  the  Lord  in  my  heart 
noo,  for  I  ken  He  was  lookin'  doon  when  the  cart 
gaed  ower  Joey,  an'  He  wanted  to  tak  my  laddie 
to  Himsel.  But  juist  when  I  come  to  '  Thou  God 
seest  me,'  I  let  the  Book  lie  in  my  lap,  for  aince  a 
body's  sure  o'  that  they're  sure  o'  all  Ay,  ye'll 
laugh,  but  I  think,  mebbe  juist  because  I  was  his 
mother,  'at  though  Joey  never  lived  to  preach  in  a 
kirk,  he's  preached  frae  '  Thou  God  seest  me '  to 
me.  I  dinna  ken  'at  I  would  ever  hae  been  sae 
sure  o'  that  if  it  hadna  been  for  him,  an'  so  I  think 
I  see  'im  sailin'  doon  to  the  pulpit  juist  as  he  said 
he  would  do.  I  seen  him  gien  me  the  look  he 
spoke  o'  —  ay,  he  looks  my  wy  first,  an'  I  ken  it's 
him.  Naebody  sees  him  but  me,  but  I  see  him 
gien  me  the  look  he  promised.  He's  so  terrible 
near  me,  an'  him  dead,  'at  wen  my  time  comes  I'll 
be  rale  willin'  to  go.  I  dinna  say  that  to  Jamie, 
because  he  all  trembles ;  but  I'm  auld  noo,  an'  I'm 
no  nane  loth  to  gang." 

Jess's  staff  probably  had  a  history  before  it  be- 
came hers,  for,  as  known  to  me,  it  was  always  old 
and  black.  If  we  studied  them  sufficiently  we 
might  discover  that  staves  age  perceptibly  just  as 
the  hair  turns  grey.  At  the  risk  of  being  thought 
fanciful  I  dare  to  say  that  in  inanimate  objects,  as 
in  ourselves,  there  is  honourable  and  shameful  old 

43 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

age,  and  that  to  me  Jess's  staff  was  a  symbol  of 
the  good,  the  true.  It  rested  against  her  in  the 
window,  and  she  was  so  helpless  without  it  when 
on  her  feet,  that  to  those  who  saw  much  of  her  it 
was  part  of  herself.  The  staff  was  very  short, 
nearly  a  foot  having  been  cut,  as  I  think  she  once 
told  me  herself,  from  the  original,  of  which  to 
make  a  porridge  thieval  (or  stick  with  which  to 
stir  porridge),  and  in  moving  Jess  leant  heavily  on 
it.  Had  she  stood  erect  it  would  not  have  touched 
the  floor.  This  was  the  staff  that  Jess  shook  so 
joyfully  at  her  boy  the  forenoon  in  May  when  he 
ran  out  to  his  death.  Joey,  however,  was  asso- 
ciated in  Jess's  memory  with  her  staff  in  less  pain- 
ful ways.  When  she  spoke  of  him  she  took  the 
dwarf  of  a  staff  in  her  hands  and  looked  at  it 
softly. 

"  It's  hard  to  me,"  she  would  say,  "  to  believe  'at 
twa  an'  twenty  years  hae  come  and  gone  since  the 
nicht  Joey  hod  (hid)  my  staff.  Ay,  but  Hendry 
was  straucht  in  thae  days  by  what  he  is  noo,  an' 
Jamie  wasna  born.  Twa'  an'  twenty  years  come 
the  back  end  o'  the  year,  an'  it  wasna  thocht  'at  I 
could  live  through  the  winter.  '  Yell  no  last  mair 
than  anither  month,  Jess,'  was  what  my  sister  Bell 
said,  when  she  came  to  see  me,  and  yet  here  I  am 
aye  sittin'  at  my  window,  an'  Bell's  been  i'  the 
kirkyard  this  dozen  years. 

"  Leeby  was  saxteen  month  younger  than  Joey, 

44 


DEAD   THIS   TWENTY   YEARS 

an*  mair  quiet  like.  Her  heart  was  juist  set  on  helpin' 
aboot  the  hoose,  an'  though  she  was  but  fower  yeai 
auld  she  could  kindle  the  fire  an'  red  up  (clean 
up)  the  room.  Leeby's  been  my  savin'  ever  since 
she  was  fower  year  auld.  Ay,  but  it  was  Joey  'at 
hung  aboot  me  maist,  an'  he  took  notice  'at  I 
wasna  gaen  out  as  I  used  to  do.  Since  sune  after 
my  marriage  I've  needed  the  stick,  but  there  was 
days  'at  I  could  gang  across  the  road  an'  sit  on  a 
stane.  Joey  kent  there  was  something  wrang 
when  I  had  to  gie  that  up,  an'  syne  he  noticed  'at 
I  couldna  even  gang  to  the  window  unless  Hen- 
dry  kind  o'  carried  me.  Na,  ye  wouldna  think 
'at  there  could  hae  been  days  when  Hendry  did 
that,  but  he  did.  He  was  a  sort  o'  ashamed  if 
ony  o'  the  neighbours  saw  him  so  affectionate  like, 
but  he  was  terrible  taen  up  aboot  me.  His  loom 
was  doon  at  T'nowhead's  Bell's  father's,  an'  often 
he  cam  awa  up  to  see  if  I  was  ony  better.  He 
didna  lat  on  to  the  other  weavers  'at  he  was  comin' 
to  see  what  like  I  was.  Na,  he  juist  said  he'd  for- 
gotten a  pirn,  or  his  cruizey  lamp,  or  ony  thing. 
Ah,  but  he  didna  mak  nae  pretence  o'  no  carin' 
for  me  aince  he  was  inside  the  hoose.  He  came 
crawlin'  to  the  bed  no  to  wauken  me  if  I  was 
sleepin',  an'  mony  a  time  I  made  belief  'at  I  was, 
juist  to  please  him.  It  was  an  awfu'  business  on 
him  to  hae  a  young  wife  sae  helpless,  but  he  wasna 
the  man  to  cast  that  at  me.  I  mind  o'  sayin'  to 

45 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

him  one  day  in  my  bed, '  Ye  made  a  poor  bargain, 
Hendry,  when  ye  took  me.'  But  he  says,  'Not 
one  soul  in  Thrums  '11  daur  say  that  to  me  but 
yersel,  Jess.  Na,  na,  my  dawty,  you're  the  wuman 
o'  my  choice;  there's juist  one  wuman  i'thewarld 
to  me,  an'  that's  you,  my  ain  Jess.'  Twa  an* 
twenty  years  syne.  Ay,  Hendry  called  me  fond 
like  names,  thae  no  everyday  names.  What  a 
straucht  man  he  was  ! 

"  The  doctor  had  said  he  could  do  no  more  for 
me,  an'  Hendry  was  the  only  ane  'at  didna  gie  me 
up.  The  bairns,  of  course,  didna  understan',  and 
Joey  would  come  into  the  bed  an'  play  on  the 
top  o'  me.  Hendry  would  hae  ta'en  him  awa, 
but  I  liked  to  hae  'im.  Ye  see,  we  war  long  mar- 
ried afore  we  had  a  bairn,  an'  though  I  couldna 
bear  ony  other  weight  on  me,  Joey  didna  hurt  me, 
somehoo.  I  liked  to  hae  'im  so  close  to  me. 

"  It  was  through  that  'at  he  came  to  bury  my 
staff.  I  couldna  help  often  thinkin'  o'  what  like 
the  hoose  would  be  when  I  was  gone,  an'  aboot 
Leeby  an'  Joey  left  so  young.  So,  when  I  could 
say  it  without  greetin',  I  said  to  Joey  'at  I  was 
goin'  far  awa,  an'  would  he  be  a  terrible  guid 
laddie  to  his  father  and  Leeby  when  I  was  gone  *? 
He  aye  juist  said,  'Dinna  gang,  mother,  dinna 
gang,'  but  one  day  Hendry  came  in  frae  his  loom, 
and  says  Joey,  '  Father,  whaur's  my  mother  gaen 
to,  awa  frae  us  ? '  I  '11  never  forget  Hendry's  face. 

46 


DEAD   THIS   TWENTY   YEARS 

His  mooth  juist  opened  an'  shut  twa  or  three  times, 
an'  he  walked  quick  ben  to  the  room.  I  cried  oot 
to  him  to  come  back,  but  he  didna  come,  so  I  sent 
Joey  for  him.  Joey  came  runnin*  back  to  me 
sayin',  '  Mother,  mother,  am  awfu'  fleid  (fright- 
ened), for  my  father's  greetin'  sair." 

"A'  thae  things  took  a  haud  o'  Joey,  an'  he 
ended  in  gien  us  a  fleg  (fright).  I  was  sleepin'  ill 
at  the  time,  an'  Hendry  was  ben  sleepin'  in  the 
room  wi'  Leeby,  Joey  bein'  wi'  me.  Ay,  weel, 
one  nicht  I  woke  up  in  the  dark  an'  put  oot  my 
hand  to  'im,  an'  he  wasna  there.  I  sat  up  wi'  a 
terrible  start,  an'  syne  I  kent  by  the  cauld  'at  the 
door  maun  be  open.  I  cried  oot  quick  to  Hendry, 
but  he  was  a  soond  sleeper,  an'  he  didna  hear  me. 
Ay,  I  dinna  ken  hoo  I  did  it,  but  I  got  ben  to  the 
room  an'  shook  him  up.  I  was  near  daft  with  fear 
when  I  saw  Leeby  wasna  there  either.  Hendry 
couldna  tak  it  in  a'  at  aince,  but  sune  he  had  his 
trousers  on,  an'  he  made  me  lie  down  on  his  bed. 
He  said  he  wouldna  move  till  I  did  it,  or  I  wouldna 
hae  dune  it.  As  sune  as  he  was  oot  o'  the  hoose 
crying  their  names  I  sat  up  in  my  bed  listenin'. 
Sune  I  heard  speakin',  an'  in  a  minute  Leeby 
comes  runnin'  in  to  me,  roarin'  an'  greetin'.  She 
was  barefeeted,  and  had  juist  her  nichtgown  on, 
an'  her  teeth  was  chatterin'.  I  took  her  into  the 
bed,  but  it  was  an  hour  afore  she  could  tell  me 
onything,  she  was  in  sic  a  state. 

47 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"Sune  after  Hendry  came  in  carryin*  Joey. 
Joey  was  as  naked  as  Leeby,  and  as  cauld  as  lead, 
but  he  wasna  greetin'.  Instead  o'  that  he  was 
awfu'  satisfied  like,  and  for  all  Hendry  threatened 
to  lick  him  he  wouldna  tell  what  he  an'  Leeby 
had  been  doin'.  He  says,  though,  says  he,  *  Ye'll 
no  gang  awa  noo,  mother ;  no,  ye'll  bide  noo.'  My 
bonny  laddie,  I  didna  fathom  him  at  the  time. 

"  It  was  Leeby  'at  I  got  it  frae.  Ye  see,  Joey 
had  never  seen  me  gaen  ony  gait  withoot  my  staff, 
an'  he  thocht  if  he  hod  it  I  wouldna  be  able  to 
gang  awa.  Ay,  he  planned  it  all  oot,  though  he 
was  but  a  bairn,  an'  lay  watchin'  me  in  my  bed  till 
I  fell  asleep.  Syne  he  creepit  oot  o'  the  bed,  an' 
got  the  staff,  and  gaed  ben  for  Leeby.  She  was 
fleid,  but  he  said  it  was  the  only  wy  to  mak  me  'at 
I  couldna  gang  awa.  It  was  juist  ower  there 
whaur  thae  cabbages  is  'at  he  dug  the  hole  wi'  a 
spade,  an'  buried  the  staff.  Hendry  dug  it  up 
next  mornin'." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  STATEMENT   OF  TIBBIE  BIRSE 

ON  a  Thursday  Pete  Lownie  was  buried,  and  when 
Hendry  returned  from  the  funeral  Jess  asked  if 
Davit  Lunan  had  been  there. 

"  Na,"  said  Hendry,  who  was  shut  up  in  the 
closet-bed,  taking  off  his  blacks,  "  I  heard  tell  he 
wasna  bidden." 

"Yea,  yea,"  said  Jess,  nodding  to  me  signifi- 
cantly. "Ay,  weel,"  she  added,  "we'll  be  hae'n 
Tibbie  ower  here  on  Saturday  to  deave's  (weary 
us)  to  death  aboot  it." 

Tibbie,  Davit's  wife,  was  sister  to  Marget,  Pete's 
widow,  and  she  generally  did  visit  Jess  on  Satur- 
day night  to  talk  about  Marget,  who  was  fast  be- 
coming one  of  the  most  fashionable  persons  in 
Thrums.  Tibbie  was  hopelessly  plebeian.  She 
was  none  of  your  proud  kind,  and  if  I  entered  the 
kitchen  when  she  was  there  she  pretended  not  to 
see  me,  so  that,  if  I  chose,  I  might  escape  without 
speaking  to  the  like  of  her.  I  always  grabbed  her 
hand,  however,  in  a  frank  way. 

49 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

On  Saturday  Tibbie  made  her  appearance. 
From  the  rapidity  of  her  walk,  and  the  way  she 
was  sucking  in  her  mouth,  I  knew  that  she  had 
strange  things  to  unfold.  She  had  pinned  a  grey 
shawl  about  her  shoulders,  and  wore  a  black  mutch 
over  her  dangling  grey  curls. 

"  It's  you,  Tibbie,"  I  heard  Jess  say,  as  the  door 
opened. 

Tibbie  did  not  knock,  not  considering  herself 
grand  enough  for  ceremony,  and  indeed  Jess  would 
have  resented  her  knocking.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  Leeby  visited  Tibbie,  she  knocked  as  po- 
litely as  if  she  were  collecting  for  the  precentor's 
present.  All  this  showed  that  we  were  superior 
socially  to  Tibbie. 

"  Ay,  hoo  are  ye,  Jess  *?  "  Tibbie  said. 

"  Muckle  aboot  it,"  answered  Jess;  "juist  affan* 
on ;  ay,  an'  hoo  hae  ye  been  yersel  *?  " 

"  Ou,"  said  Tibbie. 

I  wish  I  could  write  "  ou  "  as  Tibbie  said  it. 
With  her  it  was  usually  a  sentence  in  itself. 
Sometimes  it  was  a  mere  bark,  again  it  expressed 
indignation,  surprise,  rapture ;  it  might  be  a  check 
upon  emotion  or  a  way  of  leading  up  to  it,  and 
often  it  lasted  for  half  a  minute.  In  this  instance 
it  was,  I  should  say,  an  intimation  that  if  Jess  was 
ready  Tibbie  would  begin. 

"  So  Pete  Lownie's  gone,"  said  Jess,  whom  I 
could  not  see  from  ben  the  house.  I  had  a  good 


THE  STATEMENT  OF  TIBBIE  BIRSE 

glimpse  of  Tibbie,  however,  through  the  open  door- 
ways. She  had  the  armchair  on  the  south  side,  as 
she  would  have  said,  of  the  fireplace. 

"  He's  awa,"  assented  Tibbie,  primly. 

I  heard  the  lid  of  the  kettle  dancing,  and  then 
came  a  prolonged  "  ou."  Tibbie  bent  forward  to 
whisper,  and  if  she  had  anything  terrible  to  tell  I 
was  glad  of  that,  for  when  she  whispered  I  heard 
her  best.  For  a  time  only  a  murmur  of  words 
reached  me,  distant  music  with  an  "  ou  "  now  and 
again  that  fired  Tibbie  as  the  beating  of  his  drum 
may  rouse  the  martial  spirit  of  a  drummer.  At 
last  our  visitor  broke  into  an  agitated  whisper,  and 
it  was  only  when  she  stopped  whispering,  as  she 
did  now  and  again,  that  I  ceased  to  hear  her.  Jess 
evidently  put  a  question  at  times,  but  so  politely 
(for  she  had  on  her  best  wrapper)  that  I  did  not 
catch  a  word. 

"  Though  I  should  be  struck  deid  this  mcht," 
Tibbie  whispered,  and  the  sibilants  hissed  between 
her  few  remaining  teeth,  "  I  wasna  sae  muckle  as 
speired  to  the  layin'  oot.  There  was  Mysy  Cruick- 
shanks  there,  an'  Kitty  Wobster  'at  was  nae  friends 
to  the  corpse  to  speak  o',  but  Marget  passed  by 
me,  me  'at  is  her  ain  flesh  an'  blood,  though  it 
mayna  be  for  the  like  o'  me  to  say  it.  It's  gospel 
truth,  Jess,  I  tell  ye,  when  I  say  'at,  for  all  I  ken 
officially,  as  ye  micht  say,  Pete  Lownie  may  be 
weel  and  hearty  this  day.  If  I  was  to  meet 

51 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

Marget  in  the  face  I  couldna  say  he  was  deid, 
though  I  ken  'at  the  wricht  coffined  him;  na, 
an'  what's  mair,  I  wouldna  gie  Marget  the  satisfac- 
tion o'  hearin'  me  say  it.  No,  Jess,  I  tell  ye,  I 
dinna  pertend  to  be  on  an  equal ty  wi'  Marget,  but 
equalty  or  no  equalty,  a  body  has  her  feelings,  an' 
lat  on  'at  I  ken  Pete's  gone  I  will  not.  Eh  *?  Ou, 
weel.  .  .  . 

"  Na  faags  a' ;  na,  na.  I  ken  my  place  better 
than  to  gang  near  Marget.  I  dinna  deny  'at  she's 
grand  by  me,  and  her  keeps  a  bakehoose  o'  her  ain, 
an'  glad  am  I  to  see  her  doin'  sae  weel,  but  let  me 
tell  ye  this,  Jess, '  Pride  goeth  before  a  fall.'  Yes, 
it  does,  it's  Scripture ;  ay,  it's  nae  mak-up  o'  mine, 
it's  Scripture.  And  this  I  will  say,  though  kennin' 
my  place,  'at  Davit  Lunan  is  as  dainty  a  man  as  is 
in  Thrums,  an'  there's  no  one  'at's  better  behaved 
at  a  bural,  being  particularly  wise-like  (presentable) 
in's  blacks,  an'  them  spleet  new.  Na,  na,  Jess, 
Davit  may  hae  his  faults  an'  tak  a  dram  at  times 
like  anither,  but  he  would  shame  naebody  at  a 
bural,  an'  Marget  deleeberately  insulted  him,  no 
speirin'  him  to  Pete's.  What's  mair,  when  the 
minister  cried  in  to  see  me  yesterday,  an'  me  on 
the  floor  washin',  says  he,  'So  Marget's  lost  her 
man,'  an'  I  said,  *  Say  ye  so,  nae  ? '  for  let  on  'at  I 
kent,  and  neither  me  at  the  laying  oot  nor  Davit 
Lunan  at  the  funeral,  I  would  not. 

" '  David  should  hae  gone  to  the  funeral,'  says 
52 


THE  STATEMENT  OF  TIBBIE  BIRSE 

the  minister,  '  for  I  doubt  not  he  was  only  omitted 
in  the  invitations  by  a  mistake.' 

"  Ay,  it  was  weel  meant,  but  says  I,  Jess,  says  I, 
'  As  lang  as  am  livin'  to  tak  chairge  o'  'im,  Davit 
Lunan  gangs  to  nae  burals  'at  he's  no  bidden  to. 
An'  I  tell  ye,'  I  says  to  the  minister,  '  if  there  was 
one  body  'at  had  a  richt  to  be  at  the  bural  o'  Pete 
Lownie,  it  was  Davit  Lunan,  him  bein'  my  man  an' 
Marget  my  ain  sister.  Yes,'  says  I,  though  am  no 
o'  the  boastin'  kind,  '  Davit  had  maist  richt  to  be 
there  next  to  Pete  'imselV  Ou,  Jess.  .  .  . 

"This  is  no  a  maiter  I  like  to  speak  aboot;  na, 
I  dinna  care  to  mention  it,  but  the  neighbours  is 
nat' rally  ta'en  up  aboot  it,  and  Chirsty  Tosh  was 
sayin'  what  I  would  wager  'at  Marget  hadna  sent 
the  minister  to  hint  'at  Davit's  bein'  overlookit  in 
the  invitations  was  juist  an  accident  *?  Losh,  losh, 
Jess,  to  think  'at  a  woman  could  hae  the  michty 
assurance  to  mak  a  tool  o'  the  very  minister !  But, 
sal,  as  far  as  that  gangs,  Marget  would  do  it,  an* 
gae  twice  to  the  kirk  next  Sabbath,  too ;  but  if  she 
thinks  she's  to  get  ower  me  like  that,  she  taks  me 
for  a  bigger  fule  than  I  tak  her  for.  Na,  na,  Mar- 
get,  ye  dinna  draw  my  leg  (deceive  me).  Ou, 
no.  .  .  . 

"  Mind  ye,  Jess,  I  hae  no  desire  to  be  friends 
wi'  Marget.  Naething  could  be  farrer  frae  my 
wish  than  to  hae  helpit  in  the  layin'  oot  o'  Pete 
Lownie,  an',  I  assure  ye,  Davit  wasna  keen  to  gang 

53 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

to  the  bural.  *  If  they  dinna  want  me  to  their 
burals,'  Davit  says,  '  they  hae  nae  mair  to  do  than 
to  say  sae.  But  I  warn  ye,  Tibbie,'  he  says,  '  if 
there's  a  bural  frae  this  hoose,  be  it  your  bural,  or 
be  it  my  bural,  not  one  o'  the  family  o'  Lownies 
casts  their  shadows  upon  the  corp.'  Thae  was  the 
very  words  Davit  said  to  me  as  we  watched  the 
hearse  frae  the  sky-licht.  Ay,  he  bore  up  won- 
derfu',  but  he  felt  it,  Jess  —  he  felt  it,  as  I  could 
tell  by  his  takkin'  to  drink  again  that  very  nicht. 
Jess,  Jess.  ... 

"  Marget's  getting  waur  an'  waur  *?  Ay,  ye  may 
say  so,  though  I'll  say  naething  agin  her  mysel. 
Of  coorse  am  no  on  equalty  wi'  her,  especially 
since  she  had  the  bell  put  up  in  her  hoose.  Ou,  I 
hinna  seen  it  mysel,  na,  I  never  gang  near  the 
hoose,  an',  as  mony  a  body  can  tell  ye,  when  I  do 
hae  to  gang  that  wy  I  mak  my  feet  my  friend. 
Ay,  but  as  I  was  sayin',  Marget's  sae  grand  noo  'at 
she  has  a  bell  in  the  house.  As  I  understan', 
there's  a  rope  in  the  wast  room,  an'  when  ye  pu'  it 
a  bell  rings  in  the  east  room.  Weel,  when  Marget 
has  company  at  their  tea  in  the  wast  room,  an' 
they  need  mair  watter  or  scones  or  onything,  she 
rises  an'  rings  the  bell.  Syne  Jean,  the  auldest 
lassie,  gets  up  frae  the  table  an'  lifts  the  jug  or  the 
plates  an'  gaes  awa  ben  to  the  east  room  for  what's 
wanted.  Ay,  it's  a  wy  o'  doin'  'at's  juist  like  the 
gentry,  but  I'll  tell  ye,  Jess,  Pete  juist  fair  hated 


THE  STATEMENT  OF  TIBBIE  BIRSE 

the  soond  o'  that  bell,  an'  there's  them  'at  says  it 
was  the  death  o'  'im. ,  To  think  o'  Marget  ha'en 
sic  an  establishment ! .  .  . 

"  Na,  I  hinna  seen  the  mournin',  I've  heard  o't. 
Na,  if  Marget  doesna  tell  me  naething,  am  no  the 
kind  to  speir  naething,  an'  though  I'll  be  at  the 
kirk  the  morn,  I  winna  turn  my  heid  to  look  at  the 
mournin'.  But  it's  fac  as  death  I  ken  frae  Janet 
McQuhatty  'at  the  bonnet's  a'  crape,  and  three 
yairds  o'  crape  on  the  dress,  the  which  Marget  calls 
a  costume.  .  .  .  Ay,  I  wouldna  wonder  but  what  it 
vas  hale  watter  the  morn,  for  it  looks  michty  like 
rain,  an'  if  it  is  it'll  serve  Marget  richt,  an'  mebbe 
bring  doon  her  pride  a  wee.  No  'at  I  want  to  see 
her  humbled,  for,  in  coorse,  she's  grand  by  the  like 
o'  me.  Ou,  but . . ." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

A   CLOAK   WITH    BEADS 

ON  weekdays  the  women  who  passed  the  window 
were  meagrely  dressed ;  mothers  in  draggled  win- 
sey  gowns,  carrying  infants  that  were  armfuls  of 
grandeur.  The  Sabbath  clothed  every  one  in  her 
best,  and  then  the  women  went  by  with  their  hands 
spread  out.  When  I  was  with  Hendry  cloaks 
with  beads  were  the  fashion,  and  Jess  sighed  as 
she  looked  at  them.  They  were  known  in  Thrums 
as  the  Eleven  and  a  Bits  (threepenny  bits),  that 
being  their  price  at  Kyowowy's  in  the  square. 
Kyowowy  means  finicky,  and  applied  to  the  draper 
by  general  consent.  No  doubt  it  was  very  char- 
acteristic to  call  the  cloaks  by  their  market  value. 
In  the  glen  my  scholars  still  talk  of  their  school- 
books  as  the  tupenny,  the  fowerpenny,  the  sax- 
penny.  They  finish  their  education  with  the  ten- 
penny. 

Jess's  opportunity  for  handling  the  garments  that 
others  of  her  sex  could  finger  in  shops  was  when 
she  had  guests  to  tea.  Persons  who  merely  dropped 

56 


A  CLOAK  WITH   BEADS 

in  and  remained  to  tea  got  their  meal,  as  a  rule,  in 
the  kitchen.  They  had  nothing  on  that  Jess  could 
not  easily  take  in  as  she  talked  to  them.  But  when 
they  came  by  special  invitation,  the  meal  was  served 
in  the  room,  the  guests'  things  being  left  on  the 
kitchen  bed.  Jess  not  being  able  to  go  ben  the 
house,  had  to  be  left  with  the  things.  When  the 
time  to  go  arrived,  these  were  found  on  the  bed, 
just  as  they  had  been  placed  there,  but  Jess  could 
now  tell  Leeby  whether  they  were  imitation,  why 
Bell  Elshioner's  feather  went  far  round  the  bonnet, 
and  Chirsty  Lownie's  reason  for  always  holding  her 
left  arm  fast  against  her  side  when  she  went  abroad 
in  the  black  jacket.  Ever  since  My  Hobart's 
eleven  and  a  bit  was  left  on  the  kitchen  bed  Jess 
had  hungered  for  a  cloak  with  beads.  My's  was  the 
very  marrows  of  the  one  T'nowhead's  wife  got  in 
Dundee  for  ten-and-sixpence ;  indeed,  we  would 
have  thought  that  'Lisbeth's  also  came  from 
Kyowowy's  had  not  Sanders  Elshioner's  sister  seen 
her  go  into  the  Dundee  shop  with  T'nowhead  (who 
was  loth),  and  hung  about  to  discover  what  she 
was  after. 

Hendry  was  not  quick  at  reading  faces  like 
Tammas  Haggart,  but  the  wistful  look  on  Jess's 
face  when  there  was  talk  of  eleven  and  a  bits  had 
its  meaning  for  him. 

"  They're  grand  to  look  at,  no  doubt,"  I  have 
heard  him  say  to  Jess,  "  but  they're  richt  annoyin'. 

57 


That  new  wife  o'  Peter  Dickie's  had  ane  on  in  the 
kirk  last  Sabbath,  an'  wi'  her  sittin'  juist  afore  us 
I  couldna  listen  to  the  sermon  for  tryin'  to  count 
the  beads." 

Hendry  made  his  way  into  these  gossips  un- 
invited, for  his  opinions  on  dress  were  considered 
contemptible,  though  he  was  worth  consulting  on 
material.  Jess  and  Leeby  discussed  many  things 
in  his  presence,  confident  that  his  ears  were  not 
doing  their  work;  but  every  now  and  then  it  was 
discovered  that  he  had  been  hearkening  greedily. 
If  the  subject  was  dress,  he  might  then  become  a 
little  irritating. 

"  Oh,  they're  grand,"  Jess  admitted ;  "  they  set 
a  body  aff  oncommon." 

"  They  would  be  no  use  to  you,"  said  Hendry, 
"  for  ye  canna  wear  them  except  ootside." 

"  A  body  doesna  buy  cloaks  to  be  wearin'  at 
them  steady,"  retorted  Jess. 

"No,  no,  but  you  could  never  wear  yours  though 
ye  had  ane." 

"  I  dinna  want  ane.  They're  far  ower  grand  for 
the  like  o'  me." 

"  They're  no  nae  sic  thing.  Am  thinkin'  ye're 
juist  as  fit  to  wear  an  eleven  and  a  bit  as  My 
Hobart." 

"  Weel,  mebbe  I  am,  but  it's  oot  o'  the  queistion 
gettin'  ane,  they're  sic  a  price." 

"  Ay,  an'  though  we  had   the  siller,  it  would 

58 


A  CLOAK  WITH   BEADS 

surely  be  an  awfu'  like  thing  to  buy  a  cloak  'at  ye 
could  never  wear  *?  " 

"  Ou,  but  I  dinna  want  ane." 

Jess  spoke  so  mournfully  that  Hendry  became 
enraged. 

"  It's  most  michty,"  he  said,  "  'at  ye  would  gang 
an'  set  yer  heart  on  sic  a  completely  useless  thing." 

"  I  hinna  set  my  heart  on't." 

"  Dinna  blether.  Ye've  been  speakin'  aboot  thae 
eleven  and  a  bits  to  Leeby,  affan'on,  for  twa  month." 

Then  Hendry  hobbled  off  to  his  loom,  and  Jess 
gave  me  a  look  which  meant  that  men  are  trying 
at  the  best,  once  you  are  tied  to  them. 

The  cloaks  continued  to  turn  up  in  conversation, 
and  Hendry  poured  scorn  upon  Jess's  weakness, 
telling  her  she  would  be  better  employed  mending 
his  trousers  than  brooding  over  an  eleven  and  a 
bit  that  would  have  to  spend  its  life  in  a  drawer. 
An  outsider  would  have  thought  that  Hendry  was 
positively  cruel  to  Jess.  He  seemed  to  take  a 
delight  in  finding  that  she  had  neglected  to  sew  a 
button  on  his  waistcoat.  His  real  joy,  however, 
was  the  knowledge  that  she  sewed  as  no  other 
woman  in  Thrums  could  sew.  Jess  had  a  genius 
for  making  new  garments  out  of  old  ones,  and 
Hendry  never  tired  of  gloating  over  her  cleverness 
so  long  as  she  was  not  present.  He  was  always 
athirst  for  fresh  proofs  of  it,  and  these  were  forth- 
coming every  day.  Sparing  were  his  words  of 

59 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

praise  to  herself,  but  in  the  evening  he  generally 
had  a  smoke  with  me  in  the  attic,  and  then  the 
thought  of  Jess  made  him  chuckle  till  his  pipe 
went  out.  When  he  smoked  he  grunted  as  if  in 
pain,  though  this  really  added  to  the  enjoyment. 

"  It  doesna  matter,"  he  would  say  to  me,  "  what 
Jess  turns  her  hand  to,  she  can  mak  ony  mortal 
thing.  She  doesna  need  nae  teachin' ;  na,  juist  gie 
her  a  guid  look  at  onything,  be  it  clothes,  or  furni- 
ture, or  in  the  bakin'  line,  it's  all  the  same  to  her. 
She'll  mak  another  exactly  like  it.  Ye  canna 
beat  her.  Her  bannocks  is  so  superior  'at  a 
Tilliedrum  woman  took  to  her  bed  after  tastin' 
them,  an'  when  the  lawyer  has  company  his  wife 
gets  Jess  to  mak  some  bannocks  for  her  an'  syne 
pretends  they're  her  ain  bakin'.  Ay,  there's  a 
story  aboot  that.  One  day  the  auld  doctor,  him 
'at's  deid,  was  at  his  tea  at  the  lawyer's,  an'  says 
the  guidwife,  '  Try  the  cakes,  Mr.  Riach ;  they're 
my  own  bakin'.'  Weel,  he  was  a  fearsomely  out- 
spoken man,  the  doctor,  an'  nae  suner  had  he  the 
bannock  atween  his  teeth,  for  he  didna  stop  to 
swallow't,  than  he  says,  *  Mistress  Geddie,'  says  he, 
*  I  wasna  born  on  a  Sabbath.  Na,  na,  you're  no 
the  first  grand  leddy  'at  has  gien  me  bannocks  as 
their  ain  bakin'  'at  was  baked  and  fired  by  Jess 
Logan,  her  'at's  Hendry  McQumpha's  wife.'  Ay, 
they  say  the  lawyer's  wife  didna  ken  which  wy  to 
look,  she  was  that  mortified.  It's  juist  the  same 

60 


A  CLOAK  WITH   BEADS 

wi'  sewin'.  There's  wys  o'  ornamentin'  christenin' 
robes  an'  the  like  'at's  kent  to  naebody  but  hersel ; 
an'  as  for  stockin's,  weel,  though  I've  seen  her 
mak  sae  mony,  she  amazes  me  yet.  I  mind  o'  a 
furry  waistcoat  I  aince  had.  Weel,  when  it  was 
fell  dune,  do  you  think  she  gae  it  awa  to  some 
gaen  aboot  body  (vagrant)  ?  Na,  she  made  it 
into  a  richt  neat  coat  to  Jamie,  wha  was  a  bit  lad- 
die at  the  time.  When  he  grew  out  o'  it,  she 
made  a  slipbody  o't  for  hersel.  Ay,  I  dinna  ken 
a'  the  different  things  it  became,  but  the  last  time 
I  saw  it  was  ben  in  the  room,  whaur  she'd  covered 
a  footstool  wi'  't.  Yes,  Jess  is  the  cleverest  crittur 
I  ever  saw.  Leeby's  handy,  but  she's  no  a  patch 
on  her  mother." 

I  sometimes  repeated  these  panegyrics  to  Jess. 
She  merely  smiled,  and  said  that  the  men  haver 
most  terrible  when  they  are  not  at  their  work. 

Hendry  tried  Jess  sorely  over  the  cloaks,  and  a 
time  came  when,  only  by  exasperating  her,  could 
he  get  her  to  reply  to  his  sallies. 

"  Wha  wants  an  eleven  an'  a  bit  *?  "  she  retorted 
now  and  again. 

"  It's  you  'at  wants  it,"  said  Hendry,  promptly. 

"Did  I  ever  say  I  wanted  ane?  What  use 
could  I  hae  for't?" 

"That's  the  queistion,"  said  Hendry.  "Ye 
canna  gang  the  length  o'  the  door,  so  ye  would 
never  be  able  to  wear't." 

6l 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"  Ay,  weel,"  replied  Jess,  "  I'll  never  hae  the 
chance  o'  no  bein'  able  to  wear't,  for,  hooever 
muckle  I  wanted  it,  I  couldna  get  it" 

Jess's  infatuation  had  in  time  the  effect  of  mak- 
ing Hendry  uncomfortable.  In  the  attic  he  deliv- 
ered himself  of  such  sentiments  as  these  : 

"  There's  nae  understandin'  a  woman.  There's 
Jess  'at  hasna  her  equal  for  cleverness  in  Thrums, 
man  or  woman,  an'  yet  she's  fair  skeered  about 
thae  cloaks.  Aince  a  woman  sets  her  mind  on 
something  to  wear,  she's  mair  onreasonable  than 
the  stupidest  man.  Ay,  it  micht  mak  them 
humble  to  see  hoo  foolish  they  are  syne.  No, 
but  it  doesna  do't. 

"  If  it  was  a  thing  to  be  useful  noo,  I  wouldna 
think  the  same  o't,  but  she  could  never  wear't. 
She  kens  she  could  never  wear't,  an'  yet  she's  juist 
as  keen  to  hae't. 

"  I  dinna  like  to  see  her  so  wantin'  a  thing,  an' 
no  able  to  get  it.  But  it's  an  awfu'  sum,  eleven 
an'  a  bit." 

He  tried  to  argue  with  her  further. 

"  If  ye  had  eleven  an'  a  bit  to  fling  awa,"  he 
said,  "  ye  dinna  mean  to  tell  me  'at  ye  would  buy 
a  cloak  instead  o'  cloth  for  a  gown,  or  flannel  for 
petticoats,  or  some  useful  thing  ?  " 

"  As  sure  as  death,"  said  Jess,  with  unwonted 
vehemence,  "  if  a  cloak  I  could  get,  a  cloak  I 
would  buy." 

62 


A  CLOAK  WITH   BEADS 

Hendry  came  up  to  tell  me  what  Jess  had  said. 

"  It's  a  michty  infatooation,"  he  said,  "  but  it 
shows  hoo  her  heart's  set  on  thae  cloaks." 

"  Aince  ye  had  it,"  he  argued  with  her,  "  ye 
would  juist  hae  to  lock  it  awa  in  the  drawers.  Ye 
would  never  even  be  seein'  't." 

"  Ay,  would  I,"  said  Jess.  "  I  would  often  tak 
it  oot  an'  look  at  it.  Ay,  an'  I  would  aye  ken  it 
was  there." 

"  But  naebody  would  ken  ye  had  it  but  yersel," 
said  Hendry,  who  had  a  vague  notion  that  this 
was  a  telling  objection. 

"  Would  they  no  ?  "  answered  Jess.  "  It  would 
be  a'  through  the  toon  afore  nicht." 

"  Weel,  all  I  can  say,"  said  Hendry,  "  is  'at  ye're 
terrible  foolish  to  tak  the  want  o'  sic  a  useless 
thing  to  heart." 

"Am  no  takkin'  't  to  heart,"  retorted  Jess,  as 
usual. 

Jess  needed  many  things  in  her  days  that  poverty 
kept  from  her  to  the  end,  and  the  cloak  was  merely 
a  luxury.  She  would  soon  have  let  it  slip  by  as 
something  unattainable  had  not  Hendry  encour- 
aged it  to  rankle  in  her  mind.  I  cannot  say  when 
he  first  determined  that  Jess  should  have  a  cloak, 
come  the  money  as  it  liked,  for  he  was  too  ashamed 
of  his  weakness  to  admit  his  project  to  me.  I  re- 
member, however,  his  saying  to  Jess  one  day : 

"  I'll  warrant  you  could  mak  a  cloak  yersel  the 

63 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

marrows  o'  thae  eleven  and  a  bits,  at  half  the 
price  f  " 

"It  would  cost,"  said  Jess,  "sax  an'  saxpence, 
exactly.  The  cloth  would  be  five  shillins,  an'  the 
beads  a  shillin'.  I  have  some  braid  'at  would  do 
fine  for  the  front,  but  the  buttons  would  be  sax- 
pence." 

•'  Ye're  sure  o'  that  ?  " 

"  I  ken  fine,  for  I  got  Leeby  to  price  the  things 
in  the  shop." 

"  Ay,  but  it  maun  be  ill  to  shape  the  cloaks  richt. 
There  was  a  queer  cut  aboot  that  ane  Peter  Dickie's 
new  wife  had  on." 

"  Queer  cut  or  no  queer  cut,"  said  Jess,  "  I  took 
the  shape  o'  My  Hobart's  ane  the  day  she  was 
here  at  her  tea,  an'  I  could  mak  the  identical  o't 
for  sax  and  sax." 

"  I  dinna  believe't,"  said  Hendry,  but  when  he 
and  I  were  alone  he  told  me, "  There's  no  a  doubt 
she  could  mak  it.  Ye  heard  her  say  she  had  ta'en 
the  shape?  Ay,  that  shows  she's  rale  set  on  a 
cloak." 

Had  Jess  known  that  Hendry  had  been  saving 
up  for  months  to  buy  her  material  for  a  cloak,  she 
would  not  have  let  him  do  it.  She  could  not 
know,  however,  for  all  the  time  he  was  scraping 
together  his  pence,  he  kept  up  a  ring-ding-dang 
about  her  folly.  Hendry  gave  Jess  all  the  wages 
he  weaved,  except  threepence  weekly,  most  of 


A  CLOAK  WITH  BEADS 

which  went  in  tobacco  and  snuff.  The  dulseman 
had  perhaps  a  halfpenny  from  him  in  the  fortnight. 
1  noticed  that  for  a  long  time  Hendry  neither 
smoked  nor  snuffed,  and  I  knew  that  for  years  he 
had  carried  a  shilling  in  his  snuff-mull.  The  re- 
mainder of  the  money  he  must  have  made  by  extra 
work  at  his  loom,  by  working  harder,  for  he  could 
scarcely  have  worked  longer. 

It  was  one  day  shortly  before  Jamie's  return  to 
Thrums  that  Jess  saw  Hendry  pass  the  house  and 
go  down  the  brae  when  he  ought  to  have  come 
in  to  his  brose.  She  sat  at  the  window  watching 
for  him,  and  by  and  by  he  reappeared,  carrying  a 
parcel. 

"  Whaur  on  earth  hae  ye  beer*  ? "  she  asked, 
"  an'  what's  that  you're  carryin'  ?  " 

"  Did  ye  think  it  was  an  eleven  an'  a  bit  *?  "  said 
Hendry. 

"  No,  I  didna,"  answered  Jess,  indignantly. 

Then  Hendry  slowly  undid  the  knots  of  the 
string  with  which  the  parcel  was  tied.  He  took 
off  the  brown  paper. 

"  There's  yer  cloth,"  he  said,  "  an'  here's  one  an' 
saxpence  for  the  beads  an'  the  buttons." 

While  Jess  still  stared  he  followed  me  ben  the 
house. 

"  It's  a  terrible  haver,"  he  said,  apologetically, 
"  but  she  had  set  her  heart  on't" 


CHAFER   IX 

THE  POWER  OF  BEAUTY 

ONE  evening  there  was  such  a  gathering  at  the 
pig-sty  that  Hendry  and  I  could  not  get  a  board 
to  lay  our  backs  against.  Circumstances  had 
pushed  Pete  Elshioner  into  the  place  of  honour 
that  belonged  by  right  of  mental  powers  to  Tam- 
mas  Haggart,  and  Tammas  was  sitting  rather  sul- 
lenly on  the  bucket,  boring  a  hole  in  the  pig  with 
his  sarcastic  eye.  Pete  was  passing  round  a  card, 
and  in  time  it  reached  me.  "  With  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
David  Alexander's  compliments,"  was  printed  on 
it,  and  Pete  leered  triumphantly  at  us  as  it  went 
the  round. 

"  Weel,  what  think  ye  ? "  he  asked,  with  a 
pretence  at  modesty. 

"  Ou,"  said  T'nowhead,  looking  at  the  others 
like  one  who  asked  a  question,  "  ou,  I  think ;  ay, 
ay." 

The  others  seemed  to  agree  with  him,  all  but 
Tammas,  who  did  not  care  to  tie  himself  down  to 
an  opinion. 

66 


THE   POWER   OF  BEAUTY 

"  Ou  ay,"  T'nowhead  continued,  more  con- 
fidently, "  it  is  so,  deceededly." 

"  Ye'll'no  ken,"  said  Pete,  chuckling,  "what  it 
means  *?  " 

"  Na,"  the  farmer  admitted,  "  na,  I  canna  say  I 
exac'ly  ken  that." 

"  I  ken,  though,"  said  Tammas,  in  his  keen  way. 

"  Weel,  then,  what  is't  *?  "  demanded  Pete,  who 
had  never  properly  come  under  Tammas's  spell. 

"  I  ken,"  said  Tammas. 

"  Oot  wi't  then." 

"  I  dinna  say  it's  lyin'  on  my  tongue,"  Tammas 
replied,  in  a  tone  of  reproof,  "but  if  ye'll  juist 
speak  awa  aboot  some  other  thing  for  a  meenute 
or  twa,  I'll  tell  ye  syne." 

Hendry  said  that  this  was  only  reasonable,  but 
we  could  think  of  no  subject  at  the  moment,  so 
we  only  stared  at  Tammas,  and  waited. 

"  I  fathomed  it,"  he  said  at  last,  "  as  sune  as  my 
een  lichted  on't.  It's  one  o'  the  bit  cards  'at  grand 
fowk  slip  'aneath  doors  when  they  mak  calls,  an' 
their  friends  is  no  in.  Ay,  that's  what  it  is." 

"  I  dinna  say  ye're  wrang,"  Pete  answered,  a 
little  annoyed.  "  Ay,  weel,  lads,  of  course  David 
Alexander's  oor  Dite  as  we  called  'im,  Dite 
Elshioner,  an'  that's  his  wy  o'  signifyin'  to  us  'at 
he's  married." 

"I  assure  ye,"  said  Hendry,  "Dite's  doin'  the 
thing  in  style." 

67 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"  Ay,  we  said  that  when  the  card  arrived,"  Pete 
admitted. 

"  I  kent,"  said  Tammas,  "  'at  that  was  the  wy 
grand  fowk  did  when  they  got  married.  I've 
kent  it  a  lang  time.  It's  no  nae  surprise  to  me." 

"  He's  been  lang  in  marryin',"  Hookey  Crewe   . 
said. 

"  He  was  thirty  at  Martinmas,"  said  Pete. 

"  Thirty,  was  he  ?  "  said  Hookey.  "  Man,  I'd 
buried  twa  wives  by  the  time  I  was  that  age,  an' 
was  castin'  aboot  for  a  third." 

"  I  mind  o'  them,"  Hendry  interposed. 

"  Ay,"  Hookey  said,  "  the  first  twa  was  angels." 
There  he  paused.  "  An'  so's  the  third,"  he  added, 
"  in  many  respects." 

"  But  wha's  the  woman  Dite's  ta'en  ?  "  T'now- 
head  or  some  one  of  the  more  silent  members  of 
the  company  asked  of  Pete. 

"  Ou,  we  dinna  ken  wha  she  is,"  answered  Pete ; 
"but  she'll  be  some  Glasca  lassie,  for  he's  there 
noo.  Look,  lads,  look  at  this.  He  sent  this  at 
the  same  time ;  it's  her  picture."  Pete  produced 
the  silhouette  of  a  young  lady,  and  handed  it 
round. 

"  What  do  ye  think  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  assure  ye  !  "  said  Hookey. 

"  Sal,"  said  Hendry,  even  more  charmed,  "  Dite's 
done  weel." 

"  Lat's  see  her  in  a  better  licht,"  said  Tammas. 
68 


THE  POWER   OF  BEAUTY 

He  stood  up  and  examined  the  photograph 
narrowly,  while  Pete  fidgeted  with  his  legs. 

"  Fairish,"  said  Tammas  at  last.  "  Ou,  ay ;  no 
what  I  would  selec'  mysel,  but  a  dainty  bit  stocky ! 
Ou,  a  tasty  crittury !  ay,  an'  she's  weel  in  order. 
Lads,  she's  a  fine  stoot  kimmer." 

"  I  conseeder  her  a  beauty,"  said  Pete,  aggres- 
sively. 

"  She's  a'  that,"  said  Hendry. 

"  A'  I  can  say,"  said  Hookey,  "  is  'at  she  taks 
me  most  michty." 

"  She's  no  a  beauty,"  Tammas  maintained ;  "  na, 
she  doesna  juist  come  up  to  that ;  but  I  dinna  deny 
but  what  she's  weel  faured." 

"  What  faut  do  ye  find  wi'  her,  Tammas  ? " 
asked  Hendry. 

"  Conseedered  critically,"  said  Tammas,  holding 
the  photograph  at  arm's  length,  "  I  would  say  'at 
she  —  let's  see  noo ;  ay,  I  would  say  'at  she's  de- 
feecient  in  genteelity." 

"  Havers,"  said  Pete. 

"  Na,"  said  Tammas,  "  no  when  conseedered 
critically.  Ye  see  she's  drawn  lauchin' ;  an'  the 
genteel  thing's  no  to  lauch,  but  juist  to  put  on 
a  bit  smirk.  Ay,  that's  the  genteel  thing." 

"  A  smile,  they  ca'  it,"  interposed  T'nowhead. 

"  I  said  a  smile,"  continued  Tammas.  "  Then 
there's  her  waist.  I  say  naething  agin  her  waist, 
speakin'  in  the  ord'nar  meanin';  but,  conseedered 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

critically,  there's  a  want  o'  suppleness,  as  ye  micht 
say,  aboot  it      Ay,  it  doesna  compare  wi'  the 

waist  o' "  (Here  Tammas  mentioned  a  young 

lady  who  had  recently  married  into  a  local  county 
family.) 

"  That  was  a  pretty  tiddy,"  said  Hookey,  "  Ou, 
losh,  ay !  it  made  me  a  kind  o'  queery  to  look  at 
her." 

*'  Ye're  ower  kyowowy  (particular),  Tammas," 
said  Pete. 

"  I  may  be,  Pete,"  Tammas  admitted ;  "  but  I 
maun  say  I'm  fond  o'  a  bonny-looken  wuman,  an' 
no  aisy  to  please ;  na,  I'm  nat'rally  ane  o'  the 
critical  kind." 

"  It's  extror'nar,"  said  T'nowhead,  "  what  a 
poo'er  beauty  has.  I  mind  when  I  was  a  callant 
readin'  aboot  Mary  Queen  o'  Scots  till  I  was  fair 
mad,  lads;  yes,  I  was  fair  mad  at  her  bein'deid.  Ou, 
I  could  hardly  sleep  at  nichts  for  thinking  o'  her." 

"  Mary  was  spunky  as  weel  as  a  beauty,"  said 
Hookey,  "  an'  that's  the  kind  I  like.  Lads,  what 
a  persuasive  tid  she  was ! " 

"  She  got  roond  the  men,"  said  Hendry,  "  ay, 
she  turned  them  roond  her  finger.  That's  the 
warst  o'  thae  beauties." 

"  I  dinna  gainsay,"  said  T'nowhead,  "  but  what 
there  was  a  little  o'  the  deevil  in  Mary,  the  crittur." 

Here  T'nowhead  chuckled,  and  then  looked 
scared. 

70 


THE   POWER   OF  BEAUTY 

"  What  Mary  needed,"  said  Tammas,  "  was  a 
strong  man  to  manage  her." 

"  Ay,  man,  but  it's  ill  to  manage  thae  beauties. 
They  gie  ye  a  glint  o'  their  een,  an'  syne  whaur  are 
ye?" 

"Ah,  they  can  be  managed,"  said  Tammas, 
complacently.  "  There's  naebody  nat'rally  safter 
wi'  a  pretty  stocky  o'  a  bit  wumany  than  mysel ; 
but  for  a'  that,  if  I  had  been  Mary's  man  I  would 
hae  stood  nane  o'  her  tantrums.  '  Na,  Mary,  my 
lass,'  I  would  hae  said,  *  this  winna  do ;  na,  na, 
ye're  a  bonny  body,  but  ye  maun  mind  'at  man's 
the  superior ;  ay,  man's  the  lord  o'  creation,  an'  so 
ye  maun  juist  sing  smaV  That's  hoo  I  would  hae 
managed  Mary,  the  speerity  crittur  'at  she  was." 

"  Ye  would  hae  haen  yer  wark  cut  oot  for  ye, 
Tammas." 

"  Ilka  mornin',"  pursued  Tammas,  "  I  would  hae 
said  to  her,  *  Mary,'  I  would  hae  said,  '  wha's  to 
wear  thae  breeks  the  day,  you  or  me  ?  '  Ay,  syne 
I  would  hae  ordered  her  to  kindle  the  fire,  or  if  I 
had  been  the  king,  of  coorse  I  would  hae  telt  her 
instead  to  ring  the  bell  an'  hae  the  cloth  laid  for 
the  breakfast.  Ay,  that's  the  wy  to  mak  the  like 
o'  Mary  respec  ye." 

Pete  and  I  left  them  talking.  He  had  written  a 
letter  to  David  Alexander,  and  wanted  me  to 
"back"  it. 


CHAPTER   X 

A  MAGNUM  OPUS 

Two  Bibles,  a  volume  of  sermons  by  the  learned 
Dr.  Isaac  Barrow,  a  few  numbers  of  the  Cheap 
Magazine,  that  had  strayed  from  Dunfermline,  and 
a  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  were  the  works  that  lay 
conspicuous  ben  in  the  room.  Hendry  had  also 
a  copy  of  Burns,  whom  he  always  quoted  in  the 
complete  poem,  and  a  collection  of  legends  in 
song  and  prose,  that  Leeby  kept  out  of  sight  in  a 
drawer. 

The  weight  of  my  box  of  books  was  a  subject 
Hendry  was  very  willing  to  shake  his  head  over, 
but  he  never  showed  any  desire  to  take  off  the  lid. 
Jess,  however,  was  more  curious ;  indeed,  she  would 
have  been  an  omnivorous  devourer  of  books  had  it 
not  been  for  her  conviction  that  reading  was  idling. 
Until  I  found  her  out  she  never  allowed  to  me  that 
Leeby  brought  her  my  books  one  at  a  time.  Some 
of  them  were  novels,  and  Jess  took  about  ten 
minutes  to  each.  She  confessed  that  what  she 
read  was  only  the  last  chapter,  owing  to  a  consum- 
ing curiosity  to  know  whether  "  she  got  him." 

She  read  all  the  London  part,  however,  of  "  The 

72 


A  MAGNUM  OPUS 

Heart  of  Midlothian,"  because  London  was 
Jamie  lived,  and  she  and  I  had  a  discussion  abom. 
it  which  ended  in  her  remembering  that  Thrums 
once  had  an  author  of  its  own. 

"  Bring  oot  the  book,"  she  said  to  Leeby ;  "  it  was 
put  awa  i'  the  bottom  drawer  ben  i'  the  room  sax 
year  syne,  an'  I  sepad  it's  there  yet." 

Leeby  came  but  with  a  faded  little  book,  the 
title  already  rubbed  from  its  shabby  brown  covers. 
I  opened  it,  and  then  all  at  once  I  saw  before  me 
again  the  man  who  wrote  and  printed  it  and  died. 
He  came  hobbling  up  the  brae,  so  bent  that  his 
body  was  almost  at  right  angles  to  his  legs,  and  his 
broken  silk  hat  was  carefully  brushed  as  in  the 
days  when  Janet,  his  sister,  lived.  There  he  stood 
at  the  top  of  the  brae,  panting. 

I  was  but  a  boy  when  Jimsy  Duthie  turned  the 
corner  of  the  brae  for  the  last  time,  with  a  score  of 
mourners  behind  him.  While  I  knew  him  there 
was  no  Janet  to  run  to  the  door  to  see  if  he  was 
coming.  So  occupied  was  Jimsy  with  the  great 
affair  of  his  life,  which  was  brewing  for  thirty  years, 
that  his  neighbours  saw  how  he  missed  his  sister 
better  than  he  realized  it  himself.  Only  his  hat 
was  no  longer  carefully  brushed,  and  his  coat  hung 
awry,  and  there  was  sometimes  little  reason  why 
he  should  go  home  to  dinner.  It  is  for  the  sake 
of  Janet  who  adored  him  that  we  should  remember 
Jimsy  in  the  days  before  she  died. 

73 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

Jimsy  was  a  poet,  and  for  the  space  of  thirty 
years  he  lived  in  a  great  epic  on  the  Millen- 
nium. This  is  the  book  presented  to  me  by  Jess, 
that  lies  so  quietly  on  my  topmost  shelf  now. 
Open  it,  however,  and  you  will  find  that  the  work 
is  entitled  "  The  Millennium :  an  Epic  Poem,  in 
Twelve  Books :  by  James  Duthie."  In  the  little 
hole  in  his  wall  where  Jimsy  kept  his  books  there 
was,  I  have  no  doubt  —  for  his  effects  were  rouped 
before  I  knew  him  except  by  name  —  a  well-read 
copy  of  "Paradise  Lost."  Some  people  would 
smile,  perhaps,  if  they  read  the  two  epics  side  by 
side,  and  others  might  sigh,  for  there  is  a  great 
deal  in  "  The  Millennium  "  that  Milton  could  take 
credit  for.  Jimsy  had  educated  himself,  after  the 
idea  of  writing  something  that  the  world  would 
not  willingly  let  die  came  to  him,  and  he  began 
his  book  before  his  education  was  complete.  So 
far  as  I  know,  he  never  wrote  a  line  that  had  not 
to  do  with  **  The  Mille'nnium."  He  was  ever  a 
man  sparing  of  his  plural  tenses,  and  "  The  Millen- 
nium "  says  "  has  "  for  "  have  " ;  a  vain  word,  in- 
deed, which  Thrums  would  only  have  permitted 
as  a  poetical  licence.  The  one  original  character 
in  the  poem  is  the  devil,  of  whom  Jimsy  gives  a 
picture  that  is  startling  and  graphic,  and  received 
the  approval  of  the  Auld  Licht  minister. 

By  trade  Jimsy  was  a  printer,  a  master-printer 
with  no  one  under  him,  and  he  printed  and  bound 

74 


A  MAGNUM  OPUS 

his  book,  ten  copies  in  all,  as  well  as  wrote  it.  To 
print  the  poem  took  him,  I  dare  say,  nearly  as  long 
as  to  write  it,  and  he  set  up  the  pages  as  they  were 
written,  one  by  one.  The  book  is  only  printed  on 
one  side  of  the  leaf,  and  each  page  was  produced 
separately  like  a  little  hand-bill.  Those  who  may 
pick  up  the  book  —  but  who  will  care  to  do  so  *?  — 
will  think  that  the  author  or  his  printer  could  not 
spell  —  but  they  would  not  do  Jimsy  that  injustice 
if  they  knew  the  circumstances  in  which  it  was 
produced.  He  had  but  a  small  stock  of  type,  and 
on  many  occasions  he  ran  out  of  a  letter.  The 
letter  e  tried  him  sorely.  Those  who  knew  him 
best  said  that  he  tried  to  think  of  words  without 
an  e  in  them,  but  when  he  was  baffled  he  had  to 
use  a  little  a  or  an  o  instead.  He  could  print 
correctly,  but  in  the  book  there  are  a  good  many 
capital  letters  in  the  middle  of  words,  and  some- 
times there  is  a  note  of  interrogation  after  "  alas  " 
or  "  Woes  me,"  because  all  the  notes  of  exclama- 
tion had  been  used  up. 

Jimsy  never  cared  to  speak  about  his  great 
poem  even  to  his  closest  friends,  but  Janet  told 
how  he  read  it  out  to  her,  and  that  his  whole  body 
trembled  with  excitement  while  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  heaven  as  if  asking  for  inspiration  that  would 
enable  his  voice  to  do  justice  to  his  writing.  So 
grand  it  was,  said  Janet,  that  her  stocking  would 
slip  from  her  fingers  as  he  read  —  and  Janet's 

7? 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

stockings,  that  she  was  always  knitting  when  not 
otherwise  engaged,  did  not  slip  from  her  hands 
readily.  After  her  death  he  was  heard  by  his 
neighbours  reciting  the  poem  to  himself,  generally 
with  his  door  locked.  He  is  said  to  have  de- 
claimed part  of  it  one  still  evening  from  the  top 
of  the  commonty  like  one  addressing  a  multitude, 
and  the  idlers  who  had  crept  up  to  jeer  at  him  fell 
back  when  they  saw  his  face.  He  walked  through 
them,  they  told,  with  his  old  body  straight  once 
more,  and  a  queer  light  playing  on  his  face.  His 
lips  are  moving  as  I  see  him  turning  the  corner  of 
the  brae.  So  he  passed  from  youth  to  old  age,  and 
all  his  life  seemed  a  dream,  except  that  part  of  it 
in  which  he  was  writing,  or  printing,  or  stitching,  or 
bii  ding  "  The  Millennium."  At  last  the  work  was 
con  pleted. 

" ,'t  is  finished,"  he  printed  at  the  end  of  the 
last  book.  "  The  task  of  thirty  years  is  over." 

It  is  indeed  over.  No  one  ever  read  "  The 
Millennium."  I  am  not  going  to  sentimentalize 
over  my  copy,  for  how  much  of  it  have  I  read  *? 
But  neither  shall  I  say  that  it  was  written  to  no 
end. 

You  may  care  to  know  the  last  of  Jimsy,  though 
in  one  sense  he  was  blotted  out  when  the  last  copy 
was  bound.  He  had  saved  one  hundred  pounds 
by  that  time,  and  being  now  neither  able  to  work 
nor  to  live  alone,  his  friends  cast  about  for  a  home 


A   MAGNUM   OPUS 

for  his  remaining  years.  He  was  very  spent  and 
feeble,  yet  he  had  the  fear  that  he  might  be  still 
alive  when  all  his  money  was  gone.  After  that 
was  the  workhouse.  He  covered  sheets  of  paper 
with  calculations  about  how  long  the  hundred 
pounds  would  last  if  he  gave  away  for  board  and 
lodgings  ten  shillings,  nine  shillings,  seven  and 
sixpence  a  week.  At  last,  with  sore  misgivings, 
he  went  to  live  with  a  family  who  took  him  for 
eight  shillings.  Less  than  a  month  afterwards  he 
died. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  GHOST  CRADLE 

OUR  dinner-hour  was  twelve  o'clock,  and  Hendry, 
for  a  not  incomprehensible  reason,  called  this  meal 
his  brose.  Frequently,  however,  while  I  was  there 
to  share  the  expense,  broth  was  put  on  the  table, 
with  beef  to  follow  in  clean  plates,  much  to 
Hendry's  distress,  for  the  comfortable  and  usual 
practice  was  to  eat  the  beef  from  the  broth-plates. 
Jess,  however,  having  three  whole  white  plates  and 
two  cracked  ones,  insisted  on  the  meals  being  taken 
genteelly,  and  her  husband,  with  a  look  at  me,  gave 
way. 

"Half  a  pound  o'  boiling  beef,  an'  a  penny 
bone,"  was  Leeby's  almost  invariable  order  when 
she  dealt  with  the  flesher,  and  Jess  had  always 
neighbours  poorer  than  herself  who  got  a  plateful 
of  the  broth.  She  never  had  anything  without 
remembering  some  old  body  who  would  be  the 
better  of  a  little  of  it. 

Among  those  who  must  have  missed  Jess  sadly 
after  she  was  gone  was  Johnny  Proctor,  a  half- 
witted man  who,  because  he  could  not  work,  re- 

78 


THE  GHOST   CRADLE 

mained  straight  at  a  time  of  life  when  most  weavers, 
male  and  female,  had  lost  some  inches  of  their 
stature.  For  as  far  back  as  my  memory  goes, 
Johnny  had  got  his  brose  three  times  a  week  from 
Jess,  his  custom  being  to  walk  in  without  ceremony, 
and,  drawing  a  stool  to  the  table,  tell  Leeby  that  he 
was  now  ready.  One  day,  however,  when  I  was 
in  the  garden  putting  some  rings  on  a  fishing-wand, 
Johnny  pushed  by  me,  with  no  sign  of  recognition 
on  his  face.  I  addressed  him,  and,  after  pausing 
undecidedly,  he  ignored  me.  When  he  came  to 
the  door,  instead  of  flinging  it  open  and  walking  in, 
he  knocked  primly,  which  surprised  me  so  much 
that  I  followed  him. 

"  Is  this  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha  lives  ?  "  he 
asked,  when  Leeby,  with  a  face  ready  to  receive 
the  minister  himself,  came  at  length  to  the  door. 

I  knew  that  the  gentility  of  the  knock  had 
taken  both  her  and  her  mother  aback. 

"  Hoots,  Johnny,"  said  Leeby,  "  what  haver's 
this  *?  Come  awa  in." 

Johnny  seemed  annoyed. 

"  Is  this  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha  lives  ? " 
he  repeated. 

"  Say  'at  it  is,"  cried  Jess,  who  was  quicker  in 
the  uptake  than  her  daughter. 

"Of  course  this  is  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha 
lives,"  Leeby  then  said,  "  as  weel  ye  ken,  for  ye 
had  yer  dinner  here  no  twa  hours  syne." 

79 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"  Then,"  said  Johnny,  "  Mistress  Tally's  com- 
pliments to  her,  and  would  she  kindly  lend  the 
christenin'  robe,  an'  also  the  tea-tray,  if  the  same 
be  na  needed  *?  " 

Having  delivered  his  message  as  instructed, 
Johnny  consented  to  sit  down  until  the  famous 
christening  robe  and  the  tray  were  ready,  but  he 
would  not  talk,  for  that  was  not  in  the  bond.  Jess's 
sweet  face  beamed  over  the  compliment  Mrs. 
Tully,  known  on  ordinary  occasions  as  Jean  Mc- 
Taggart,  had  paid  her,  and,  after  Johnny  had  de- 
parted laden,  she  told  me  how  the  tray,  which  had  a 
great  bump  in  the  middle,  came  into  her  possession. 

"Ye've  often  heard  me  speak  aboot  the  time 
when  I  was  a  lassie  workin'  at  the  farm  o'  the 
Bog?  Ay,  that  was  afore  me  an'  Hendry  kent 
ane  anither,  an'  I  was  as  fleet  on  my  feet  in  thae 
days  as  Leeby  is  noo.  It  was  Sam'l  Fletcher  'at 
was  the  farmer,  but  he  maun  hae  been  gone  afore 
you  was  mair  than  born.  Mebbe,  though,  ye  ken 
'at  he  was  a  terrible  invalid,  an'  for  the  hinmost 
years  o'  his  life  he  sat  in  a  muckle  chair  nicht  an' 
day.  Ay,  when  I  took  his  denner  to  'im,  on  that 
.very  tray  'at  Johnny  cam  for,  I  little  thocht  'at  by 
an'  by  I  would  be  sae  keepit  in  a  chair  mysel. 

"  But  the  thinkin'  o'  Sam'l  Fletcher's  case  is  ane 
o'  the  things  'at  maks  me  awfu'  thankfu'  for  the 
lenient  wy  the  Lord  has  aye  dealt  wi'  me ;  for 
Sam'l  couldna  move  oot  o'  the  chair,  aye  sleepin 


THE  GHOST   CRADLE 

in't  at  nicht,  an'  I  can  come  an'  gang  between  mine 
an'  my  bed.  Mebbe,  ye  think  I'm  no  much  better 
off  than  Sam'l,  but  that's  a  terrible  mistak.  What 
a  glory  it  would  hae  been  to  him  if  he  could  hae 
gone  frae  one  end  o'  the  kitchen  to  the  ither.  Ay, 
I'm  sure  o'  that. 

"  Sam'l  was  rale  weel  liked,  for  he  was  saft- 
spoken  to  everybody,  an'  fond  o'  ha'en  a  gossip 
wi'  ony  ane  'at  was  aboot  the  farm.  We  didna 
care  sae  muckle  for  the  wife,  Eppie  Lownie,  for 
she  managed  the  farm,  an'  she  was  fell  hard  an' 
terrible  reserved  we  thocht,  no  even  likin'  ony 
body  to  get  friendly  wi'  the  mester,  as  we  called 
Sam'l.  Ay,  we  made  a  richt  mistak." 

As  I  had  heard  frequently  of  this  queer,  mourn- 
ful mistake  made  by  those  who  considered  Sam'l 
unfortunate  in  his  wife,  I  turned  Jess  on  to  the 
main  line  of  her  story. 

"  It  was  the  ghost  cradle,  as  they  named  it,  'at  I 
meant  to  tell  ye  aboot.  The  Bog  was  a  bigger 
farm  in  thae  days  than  noo,  but  I  daursay  it  has 
the  new  steadin'  yet.  Ay,  it  winna  be  new  noo, 
but  at  the  time  there  were  sic  a  commotion  aboot 
the  ghost  cradle,  they  were  juist  puttin'  the  new 
steadin'  up.  There  was  sax  or  mair  masons  at  it, 
wi'  the  lads  on  the  farm  helpin',  an'  as  they  were 
all  sleepin'  at  the  farm,  there  was  great  stir  aboot 
the  place.  I  couldna  tell  ye  hoo  the  story  aboot 
the  farm's  bein'  haunted  rose,  to  begin  wi',  but  I 

8l 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

mind  fine  hoo  fleid  I  was ;  ay,  an*  no  only  me,  but 
every  man-body  an'  woman-body  on  the  farm.  It 
was  aye  late  'at  the  soond  began,  an'  we  never  saw 
naething,  we  juist  heard  it.  The  masons  said  they 
wouldna  hae  been  sae  fleid  if  they  could  hae  seen't, 
but  it  never  was  seen.  It  had  the  soond  o'  a  cradle 
rockin',  an'  when  we  lay  in  our  beds  hearkenin',  it 
grew  louder  an'  louder  till  it  wasna  to  be  borne,  an' 
the  women-folk  fair  skirled  wi'  fear.  The  mester 
was  intimate  wi'  a'  the  stories  aboot  ghosts  an 
water-kelpies  an'  sic  like,  an'  we  couldna  help  list- 
enin'  to  them.  But  he  aye  said  'at  ghosts  'at  was 
juist  heard  an'  no  seen  was  the  maist  fearsome  an' 
wicked.  For  all  there  was  sic  fear  ower  the  hale 
farm-toon  'at  naebody  would  gang  ower  the  door 
alane  after  the  gloamin'  cam,  the  mester  said  he 
wasna  fleid  to  sleep  i'  the  kitchen  by  'imsel.  We 
thocht  it  richt  brave  o'  'im,  for  ye  see  he  was  as 
helpless  as  a  bairn. 

"  Richt  queer  stories  rose  aboot  the  cradle,  an* 
travelled  to  the  ither  farms.  The  wife  didna  like 
them  ava,  for  it  was  said  'at  there  maun  hae  been 
some  awful  murder  o'  an  infant  on  the  farm,  or  we 
wouldna  be  haunted  by  a  cradle.  Syne  folk  began 
to  mind  'at  there  had  been  na  bairns  born  on  the 
farm  as  far  back  as  onybody  kent,  an'  it  was  said 
'at  some  lang  syne  crime  had  made  the  Bog  cursed. 

"Dinna  think  'at  we  juist  lay  in  our  beds  or  sat 
round  the  fire  shakkin'  wi'  fear.  Everything  'at 

82 


THE  GHOST   CRADLE 

could  be  dune  was  dune.  In  the  daytime,  when 
naething  was  heard,  the  masons  explored  ae  place 
i'  the  farm,  in  the  hope  o'  fmdin'  oot  'at  the  sound 
was  caused  by  sic  a  thing  as  the  wind  playin'  on 
the  wood  in  the  garret.  Even  at  nichts,  when  they 
couldna  sleep  wi'  the  soond,  I've  kent  them  rise  in 
a  body  an'  gang  all  ower  the  house  wi'  lichts.  I've 
seen  them  climbin'  on  the  new  steadin',  crawlin' 
alang  the  rafters,  haudin'  their  cruizey  lamps  afore 
them,  an'  us  women-bodies  shiverin'  wi'  fear  at  the 
door.  It  was  on  ane  o'  thae  nights  'at  a  mason  fell 
off  the  rafters  an'  broke  his  leg.  Weel,  sic  a  state 
was  the  men  in  to  find  oot  what  it  was  'at  was  ter- 
rifyin'  them  sae  muckle,  'at  the  rest  o'  them  climbed 
up  at  aince  to  the  place  he'd  fallen  frae,  thinkin' 
there  was  something  there  'at  had  fleid  im.  But 
though  they  crawled  back  an'  forrit  there  was 
naething  ava. 

"  The  rockin'  was  louder,  we  thocht,  after  that 
nicht,  an'  syne  the  men  said  it  would  go  on  till 
somebody  was  killed.  That  idea  took  a  richt 
haud  o'  them,  an'  twa  ran  awa  back  to  Tilledrum, 
whaur  they  had  come  frae.  They  gaed  thegither 
i'  the  middle  o'  the  nicht,  an'  it  was  thocht  next 
mornin'  'at  the  ghost  had  spirited  them  awa. 

"  Ye  couldna  conceive  hoo  low-spirited  we  all 
were  after  the  masons  had  gien  up  hope  o'  findin' 
a  nat'ral  cause  for  the  soond.  At  ord'nar  times 
there's  no  ony  mair  lichtsome  place  than  a  farm  after 

83 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

the  men  hae  come  in  to  their  supper,  but  at  the 
Bog  we  sat  dour  an*  sullen ;  an'  there  wasna  a  ma- 
son or  a  farm-servant  'at  would  gang  by  'imsel  as 
far  as  the  end  o'  the  hoose  whaur  the  peats  was 
keepit.  The  mistress  maun  hae  saved  some  siller 
that  spring  through  the  Egyptians  (gypsies)  keepin' 
awa,  for  the  farm  had  got  sic  an  ill  name,  'at  nae 
tinkler  would  come  near  't  at  nicht.  The  tailor- 
man  an'  his  laddie  'at  should  hae  bidden  wi'  us 
to  sew  things  for  the  men,  walkit  off  fair  skeered 
one  mornin',  an'  settled  doon  at  the  farm  o'  Craigie- 
buckle  fower  mile  awa,  whaur  our  lads  had  to  gae 
to  them.  Ay,  I  mind  the  tailor's  sendin'  the  laddie 
for  the  money  owin'  him ;  he  hadna  the  speerit  to 
venture  again  within  soond  o'  the  cradle  'imsel. 
The  men  on  the  farm  though,  couldna  blame  'im 
for  that.  They  were  juist  as  flichtered  themsels, 
an'  mony  a  time  I  saw  them  hittin'  the  dogs  for 
whinin'  at  the  soond.  The  wy  the  dogs  took  on 
was  fearsome  in  itsel,  for  they  seemed  to  ken,  aye 
when  nicht  cam  on,  'at  the  rockin'  would  sune  be- 
gin, an'  if  they  werena  chained  they  cam  runnin' 
to  the  hoose.  I  hae  heard  the  hale  glen  fu,  as 
ye  micht  say,  wi'  the  whinin'  o'  dogs,  for  the  dogs 
on  the  other  farms  took  up  the  cry,  an'  in  a  glen 
ye  can  hear  soonds  terrible  far  awa  at  nicht. 

"  As  lang  as  we  sat  i'  the  kitchen,  listenin'  to 
what  the  mester  had  to  say  aboot  the  ghosts  in  his 
young  days,  the  cradle  would  be  still,  but  we  were 


THE  GHOST   CRADLE 

nae  suner  awa  speeritless  to  our  beds  than  it  be- 
gan, an'  sometimes  it  lasted  till  mornin.'  We  look- 
it  upon  the  mester  almost  wi'  awe,  sittin'  there  sae 
helpless  in  his  chair,  an'  no  fleid  to  be  left  alane. 
He  had  lang  white  hair,  an'  a  saft  bonny  face  'at 
would  hae  made  'im  respeckit  by  onybody,  an' 
aye  when  we  speired  if  he  wasna  fleid  to  be  left 
alane,  he  said,  '  Them  'at  has  a  clear  conscience 
has  naething  to  fear  frae  ghosts.' 

"  There  was  some  'at  said  the  curse  would  never 
leave  the  farm  till  the  house  was  razed  to  the 
ground,  an'  it's  the  truth  I'm  tellin'  ye  when  I  say 
there  was  talk  among  the  men  aboot  settin  't  on 
fire.  The  mester  was  richt  stern  when  he  heard  o' 
that,  quotin'  frae  Scripture  in  a  solemn  wy  'at 
abashed  the  masons,  but  he  said  'at  in  his  opeenion 
there  was  a  bairn  buried  on  the  farm,  an'  till  it  was 
found  the  cradle  would  go  on  rockin'.  After  that 
the  masons  dug  in  a  lot  o'  places  lookin'  for  the 
body,  an'  they  found  some  queer  things,  too,  but 
never  nae  sign  o'  a  murdered  litlin'.  Ay,  I  dinna 
ken  what  would  hae  happened  if  the  commotion 
had  gaen  on  muckle  langer.  One  thing  I'm  sure 
o'  is  'at  the  mistress  would  hae  gaen  daft,  she  took 
it  a'  sae  terrible  to  heart. 

"  I  lauch  at  it  noo,  but  I  tell  ye  I  used  to  tak  my 
heart  to  my  bed  in  my  mooth.  If  ye  hinna 
heard  the  story  I  dinna  think  ye  '11  be  able  to 
guess  what  the  ghost  cradle  was." 

85 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

I  said  I  had  been  trying  to  think  what  the  tray 
had  to  do  with  it. 

"  It  had  everything  to  do  wi't,"  said  Jess ;  "an* 
if  the  masons  had  kent  hoo  that  cradle  was  rockit, 
I  think  they  would  hae  killed  the  mester.  It  was 
Eppie  'at  found  oot,  an'  she  telt  naebody  but  me, 
though  mony  a  ane  kens  noo.  I  see  ye  canna  mak 
it  oot  yet,  so  I'll  tell  ye  what  the  cradle  was.  The 
tray  was  keepit  against  the  kitchen  wall  near  the 
mester,  'an  he  played  on't  wi'  his  foot.  He  made 
it  gang,  bump  bump,  an'  the  soond  was  just  like  a 
cradle  rockin'.  Ye  could  hardly  believe  sic  a  thing 
would  hae  made  that  din,  but  it  did,  an'  ye  see  we 
lay  in  our  beds  hearkenin'  for't  Ay,  when  Eppie 
telt  me,  I  could  scarce  believe  'at  that  guid  de- 
vout-lookin*  man  could  hae  been  sae  wicked.  Ye 
see,  when  he  found  hoo  terrified  we  a'  were,  he 
keepit  it  up.  The  wy  Eppie  found  out  i'  the  tail 
o'  the  day  was  by  wonderin'  at  'im  sleepin'  sae 
muckle  in  the  daytime.  He  did  that  so  as  to  be 
fresh  for  his  sport  at  nicht.  What  a  fine  releegious 
man  we  thocht  'im,  too ! 

"Eppie  couldna  bear  the  very  sicht  o'  the  tray 
after  that,  an'  she  telt  me  to  break  it  up;  but  I 
keepit  it,  ye  see.  The  lump  i'  the  middle's  the 
mark,  as  ye  may  say,  o'  the  auld  man's  foot" 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  WIFE 

WERE  Jess  still  alive  to  tell  the  life-story  of  Sam'l 
Fletcher  and  his  wife,  you  could  not  hear  it  and 
sit  still.  The  ghost  cradle  is  but  a  page  from  the 
black  history  of  a  woman  who  married,  to  be 
blotted  out  from  that  hour.  One  case  of  the  kind 
I  myself  have  known,  of  a  woman  so  good  mated 
to  a  man  so  selfish  that  I  cannot  think  of  her  even 
now  with  a  steady  mouth.  Hers  was  the  tragedy 
of  living  on,  more  mournful  than  the  tragedy  that 
kills.  In  Thrums  the  weavers  spoke  of  "  lousing  " 
from  their  looms,  removing  the  chains,  and  there 
is  something  woeful  in  that.  But  pity  poor  Nanny 
Coutts,  who  took  her  chains  to  bed  with  her. 

Nanny  was  buried  a  month  or  more  before  I 
came  to  the  house  on  the  brae,  and  even  in  Thrums 
the  dead  are  seldom  remembered  for  so  long  a  time 
as  that.  But  it  was  only  after  Sanders  was  left 
alone  that  we  learned  what  a  woman  she  had  been, 
and  how  basely  we  had  wronged  her.  She  was  an 
angel,  Sanders  went  about  whining  when  he  had 
no  longer  a  woman  to  ill-treat.  He  had  this  senti- 

87 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

mental  way  with  him,  but  it  lost  its  effect  after 
we  knew  the  man. 

"A  deevil  couldna  hae  deserved  waur  treat- 
ment," Tammas  Haggart  said  to  him ;  "  gang  oot 
o'  my  sicht,  man/' 

"  I'll  blame  mysel  till  I  die,"  Jess  said,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  "  for  no  understandin'  puir  Nanny 
better." 

So  Nanny  got  sympathy  at  last,  but  not  until 
her  forgiving  soul  had  left  her  tortured  body. 
There  was  many  a  kindly  heart  in  Thrums  that 
would  have  gone  out  to  her  in  her  lifetime,  but 
we  could  not  have  loved  her  without  upbraiding 
him,  and  she  would  not  buy  sympathy  at  the  price. 
What  a  little  story  it  is,  and  how  few  words  are 
required  to  tell  it !  He  was  a  bad  husband  to  her, 
and  she  kept  it  secret.  That  is  Nanny's  life 
summed  up.  It  is  all  that  was  left  behind  when 
her  coffin  went  down  the  brae.  Did  she  love  him 
to  the  end,  or  was  she  only  doing  what  she  thought 
her  duty  ?  It  is  not  for  me  even  to  guess.  A  good 
woman  who  suffers  is  altogether  beyond  man's 
reckoning.  To  such  heights  of  self-sacrifice  we 
cannot  rise.  It  crushes  us ;  it  ought  to  crush  us 
on  to  our  knees.  For  us  who  saw  Nanny,  infirm, 
shrunken,  and  so  weary,  yet  a  type  of  the  noblest 
womanhood,  suffering  for  years,  and  misunderstood 
her  to  the  end,  what  expiation  can  there  be  ?  I  do 
not  want  to  storm  at  the  man  who  made  her  life  so 


THE   TRAGEDY   OF  A   WIFE 

burdensome.  Too  many  years  have  passed  for 
that,  nor  would  Nanny  take  it  kindly  if  I  called  her 
man  names. 

Sanders  worked  little  after  his  marriage.  He 
had  a  sore  back,  he  said,  which  became  a  torture 
if  he  leant  forward  at  his  loom.  What  truth  there 
was  in  this  I  cannot  say,  but  not  every  weaver  in 
Thrums  could  "  louse  "  when  his  back  grew  sore. 
Nanny  went  to  the  loom  in  his  place,  filling  as 
well  as  weaving,  and  he  walked  about,  dressed 
better  than  the  common,  and  with  cheerful  words 
for  those  who  had  time  to  listen.  Nanny  got  no 
approval  even  for  doing  his  work  as  well  as  her 
own,  for  they  were  understood  to  have  money,  and 
Sanders  let  us  think  her  merely  greedy.  We 
drifted  into  his  opinions. 

Had  Jess  been  one  of  those  who  could  go  about, 
she  would,  I  think,  have  read  Nanny  better  than 
the  rest  of  us,  for  her  intellect  was  bright,  and 
always  led  her  straight  to  her  neighbours'  hearts. 
But  Nanny  visited  no  one,  and  so  Jess  only  knew 
her  by  hearsay.  Nanny's  standoffishness,  as  it  was 
called,  was  not  a  popular  virtue,  and  she  was 
blamed  still  more  for  trying  to  keep  her  husband 
out  of  other  people's  houses.  He  was  so  frank 
and  full  of  gossip,  and  she  was  so  reserved.  He 
would  go  everywhere,  and  she  nowhere.  He  had 
been  known  to  ask  neighbours  to  tea,  and  she  had 
shown  that  she  wanted  them  away,  or  even  begged 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

them  not  to  come.  We  were  not  accustomed  to 
go  behind  the  face  of  a  thing,  and  so  we  set  down 
Nanny's  inhospitality  to  churlishness  or  greed. 
Only  after  her  death,  when  other  women  had  to 
attend  him,  did  we  get  to  know  what  a  tyrant 
Sanders  was  at  his  own  hearth.  The  ambition  of 
Nanny's  life  was  that  we  should  never  know  it,  that 
we  should  continue  extolling  him,  and  say  what 
we  chose  about  herself.  She  knew  that  if  we  went 
much  about  the  house  and  saw  how  he  treated  her, 
Sanders  would  cease  to  be  a  respected  man  in 
Thrums. 

So  neat  in  his  dress  was  Sanders,  that  he  was 
seldom  seen  abroad  in  corduroys.  His  blue  bonnet 
for  everyday  wear  was  such  as  even  well-to-do 
farmers  only  wore  at  fair-time,  and  it  was  said  that 
he  had  a  handkerchief  for  every  day  in  the  week. 
Jess  often  held  him  up  to  Hendry  as  a  model  of 
courtesy  and  polite  manners. 

"  Him  an'  Nanny's  no  weel  matched,"  she  used 
to  say,  "for  he  has  grand  ideas,  an'  she's  o'  the 
commonest.  It  maun  be  a  richt  trial  to  a  man  wi' 
his  fine  tastes  to  hae  a  wife  'at's  wrapper's  neve; 
even  on,  an'  wha  doesna  wash  her  mutch  aince  in 
a  month." 

It  is  true  that  Nanny  was  a  slattern,  but  only 
because  she  married  into  slavery.  She  was  kept 
so  busy  washing  and  ironing  for  Sanders  that  she 
ceased  to  care  how  she  looked  herself.  .  What  did 

90 


THE   TRAGEDY   OF   A   WIFE 

it  matter  whether  her  mutch  was  clean  ?  Weav- 
ing and  washing  and  cooking,  doing  the  work  of  a 
breadwinner  as  well  as  of  a  housewife,  hers  was 
soon  a  body  prematurely  old,  on  which  no  wrapper 
would  sit  becomingly.  Before  her  face,  Sanders 
would  hint  that  her  slovenly  ways  and  dress  tried 
him  sorely,  and  in  company  at  least  she  only  bowed 
her  head.  We  were  given  to  respecting  those  who 
worked  hard,  but  Nanny,  we  thought,  was  a  woman 
of  means,  and  Sanders  let  us  call  her  a  miser.  He 
was  always  anxious,  he  said,  to  be  generous,  but 
Nanny  would  not  let  him  assist  a  starving  child. 
They  had  really  not  a  penny  beyond  what  Nanny 
earned  at  the  loom,  and  now  we  know  how  Sanders 
shook  her  if  she  did  not  earn  enough.  His  vanity 
was  responsible  for  the  story  about  her  wealth,  and 
she  would  not  have  us  think  him  vain. 

Because  she  did  so  much,  we  said  that  she  was 
as  strong  as  a  cart-horse.  The  doctor  who  attended 
her  during  the  last  week  of  her  life  discovered 
that  she  had  never  been  well.  Yet  we  had  often 
wondered  at  her  letting  Sanders  pit  his  own  pota- 
toes when  he  was  so  unable. 

"  Them  'at's  strong,  ye  see,"  Sanders  explained, 
"  doesna  ken  what  illness  is,  an'  so  it's  nat'ral  they 
shouldna  sympathize  wi'  onweel  fowk.  Ay,  I'm 
rale  thankfu'  'at  Nanny  keeps  her  health.  I  often 
envy  her." 

These   were  considered   creditable  sentiments, 

91 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

and  so  they  might  have  been  had  Nanny  uttered 
them.  Thus  easily  Saunders  built  up  a  reputation 
for  never  complaining.  I  know  now  that  he  was 
a  hard  and  cruel  man  who  should  have  married  a 
shrew ;  but  while  Nanny  lived  I  thought  he  had 
a  beautiful  nature.  Many  a  time  I  have  spoken 
with  him  at  Hendry's  gate,  and  felt  the  better  of 
his  heartiness. 

"  I  mauna  complain,"  he  always  said ;  "  na,  we 
maun  juist  fecht  awa." 

Little,  indeed,  had  he  to  complain  of,  and  little 
did  he  fight  away. 

Sanders  went  twice  to  church  every  Sabbath, 
and  thrice  when  he  got  the  chance.  There  was 
no  man  who  joined  so  lustily  in  the  singing  or 
looked  straighter  at  the  minister  during  the  prayer. 
I  have  heard  the  minister  say  that  Sanders's  con- 
stant attendance  was  an  encouragement  and  a  help 
to  him.  Nanny  had  been  a  great  church-goer 
when  she  was  a  maiden,  but  after  her  marriage  she 
only  went  in  the  afternoons,  and  a  time  came  when 
she  ceased  altogether  to  attend.  The  minister 
admonished  her  many  times,  telling  her,  among 
other  things,  that  her  irreligious  ways  were  a  dis- 
tress to  her  husband.  She  never  replied  that  she 
could  not  go  to  church  in  the  forenoon  because 
Sanders  insisted  on  a  hot  meal  being  waiting  him 
when  the  service  ended.  But  it  was  true  that 
Sanders,  for  appearance's  sake,  would  have  had 


THE   TRAGEDY   OF  A   WIFE 

her  go  to  church  in  the  afternoons.  It  is  now  be- 
lieved that  on  this  point  alone  did  she  refuse  to  do 
as  she  was  bidden.  Nanny  was  very  far  from 
perfect,  and  the  reason  she  forsook  the  kirk  utterly 
was  because  she  had  no  Sabbath  clothes. 

She  died  as  she  had  lived,  saying  not  a  word 
when  the  minister,  thinking  it  his  duty,  drew  a 
cruel  comparison  between  her  life  and  her  hus- 
band's. 

"  I  got  my  first  glimpse  into  the  real  state  of 
affairs  in  that  house,"  the  doctor  told  me  one 
night  on  the  brae,  "the  day  before  she  died 
*  You're  sure  there's  no  hope  for  me  *? '  she  asked 
wistfully,  and  when  I  had  to  tell  the  truth  she 
sank  back  on  the  pillow  with  a  look  of  joy." 

Nanny  died  with  a  lie  on  her  lips.  "  Ay,"  she 
said,  "  Sanders  has  been  a  guid  man  to  me." 


CHAPTER   XIII 

MAKING   THE   BEST   OF   IT 

HENDRY  had  a  way  of  resuming  a  conversation 
where  he  had  left  off  the  night  before.  He  would 
revolve  a  topic  in  his  mind,  too,  and  then  begin 
aloud,  "  He's  a  queer  ane,"  or,  "  Say  ye  so  *? " 
which  was  at  times  perplexing.  With  the  whole 
day  before  them,  none  of  the  family  was  inclined 
to  waste  strength  in  talk ;  but  one  morning  when 
he  was  blowing  the  steam  off  his  porridge,  Hendry 
said,  suddenly  — 

"  He's  hame  again." 

The  women-folk  gave  him  time  to  say  to  whom 
he  was  referring,  which  he  occasionally  did  as  an 
after-thought.  But  he  began  to  sup  his  porridge, 
making  eyes  as  it  went  steaming  down  his  throat. 

"I  dinna  ken  wha  ye  mean,"  Jess  said;  while 
Leeby,  who  was  on  her  knees  rubbing  the  hearth- 
stone a  bright  blue,  paused  to  catch  her  father's 
answer. 

"  Jeames  Geogehan,"  replied  Hendry,  with  the 
horn  spoon  in  his  mouth. 

Leeby  turned  to  Jess  for  enlightenment. 

94 


MAKING  THE  BEST   OF   IT 

"Geogehan,"  repeated  Jess;  "what,  no  little 
Jeames  'at  ran  awa  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  but  he's  a  muckle  stoot  man  noo,  an' 
gey  grey." 

"  Ou,  I  dinna  wonder  at  that.  It's  a  guid  forty 
year  since  he  ran  off." 

"  I  waurant  ye  couldna  say  exact  hoo  lang  syne, 
it  is?" 

Hendry  asked  this  question  because  Jess  was 
notorious  for  her  memory,  and  he  gloried  in  put- 
ting it  to  the  test. 

"  Let's  see,"  she  said. 

'•  But  wha  is  he  *?  "  asked  Leeby.  "  I  never  kent 
nae  Geogehans  in  Thrums." 

"  Weel,  it's  forty-one  years  syne  come  Michael- 
mas," said  Jess. 

"  Hoo  do  ye  ken  ?  " 

"  I  ken  fine.  Ye  mind  his  father  had  been 
lickin'  'im,  an'  he  ran  awa  in  a  passion,  cryin'  oot 
'at  he  would  never  come  back  ?  Ay,  then,  he  had 
a  pair  o'  boots  on  at  the  time,  an'  his  father  ran 
after  'im  an'  took  them  aff  'im.  The  boots  was  the 
last  'at  Da  vie  Mearns  made,  an'  it's  fully  ane-an- 
forty  years  since  Davie  fell  ower  the  quarry  on 
the  day  o'  the  hill-market.  That  settles't.  Ay, 
an'  Jeames  '11  be  turned  fifty  noo,  for  he  was 
comin'  on  for  ten  year  auld  at  that  time.  Ay,  ay, 
an'  he's  come  back.  What  a  state  Eppie  '11  be 


in!" 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"  Tell's  wha  he  is,  mother." 

"  Od,  he's  Eppie  Guthrie's  son.  Her  man  was 
William  Geogehan,  but  he  died  afore  you  was 
born,  an'  as  Jeames  was  their  only  bairn,  the  name 
o'  Geogehan's  been  a  kind  o'  lost  sicht  o'.  Hae 
ye  seen  him,  Hendry?  Is't  true  'at  he  made  a 
fortune  in  thae  far-awa  countries'?  Eppie  '11  be 
blawin'  aboot  him  richt?" 

"  There's  nae  doubt  aboot  the  siller,"  said 
Hendry,  "for  he  drove  in  a  carriage  frae  Tillie- 
drum,  an'  they  say  he  needs  a  closet  to  hing  his 
claes  in,  there's  sic  a  heap  o'  them.  Ay,  but  that's 
no  a'  he's  brocht,  na,  far  frae  a'." 

"  Dinna  gang  awa  till  ye've  telt's  a'  aboot  'im. 
What  mair  has  he  brocht? " 

"  He's  brocht  a  wife,"  said  Hendry,  twisting  his 
face  curiously. 

"  There's  naething  surprisin'  in  that." 

"  Ay,  but  there  is,  though.  Ye  see,  Eppie  had  a 
letter  frae  'im  no  mony  weeks  syne,  sayin'  'at  he 
wasna  deid,  an'  he  was  comin'  hame  wi'  a  fortune. 
He  said,  too,  'at  he  was  a  single  man,  an'  she's 
been  boastin'  aboot  that,  so  you  may  think  'at  she 
got  a  surprise  when  he  hands  a  wuman  oot  o'  the 
carriage." 

"  An'  no  a  pleasant  ane,"  said  Jess.  "  Had  he 
been  leein'  <?  " 

"Na,  he  was  single  when  he  wrote,  an'  single 
when  he  got  the  length  o'  Tilliedrum.  Ye  see,  he 

96 


MAKING   THE   BEST   OF   IT 

fell  in  wi'  the  lassie  there,  an'  juist  gaed  clean  aft 
his  heid  aboot  her.  After  managin'  to  withstand 
the  women  o'  foreign  lands  for  a'  thae  years,  he 
gaed  fair  skeer  aboot  this  stocky  at  Tilliedrum. 
She's  juist  seventeen  years  auld,  an'  the  auld  fule 
sits  wi'  his  airm  round  her  in  Eppie's  hoose,  though 
they've  been  mairit  this  fortnicht" 

"  The  doited  fule,"  said  Jess. 

Jeames  Geogehan  and  his  bride  became  the  talk 
of  Thrums,  and  Jess  saw  them  from  her  window 
several  times.  The  first  time  she  had  only  eyes 
for  the  jacket  with  fur  round  it  worn  by  Mrs. 
Geogehan,  but  subsequently  she  took  in  Jeames. 

"  He's  tryin'  to  carry't  affwi'  his  heid  in  the  air,'' 
she  said,  "but  I  can  see  he's  fell  shamefaced,  an' 
nae  wonder.  Ay,  I'se  uphaud  he's  mair  ashamed 
o't  in  his  heart  than  she  is.  It's  an  awful  like 
thing  o'  a  lassie  to  marry  an  auld  man.  She  had 
dune't  for  the  siller.  Ay,  there's  pounds'  worth  o' 
fur  aboot  that  jacket." 

"They  say  she  had  siller  hersel,"  said  Tibbie 
Birse. 

"  Dinna  tell  me,"  said  Jess.  "  I  ken  by  her  wy 
o'  carryin'  hersel  'at  she  never  had  a  jacket  like 
that  afore." 

Eppie  was  not  the  only  person  in  Thrums  whom 
this  marriage  enraged.  Stories  had  long  been 
alive  of  Jeames's  fortune,  which  his  cousins'  chil- 
dren were  some  day  to  divide  among  themselves, 

97 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

and  as  a  consequence  these  young  men  and  women 
looked  on  Mrs.  Geogehan  as  a  thief. 

"  Dinna  bring  the  wife  to  our  hoose,  Jeames," 
one  of  them  told  him,  "  for  we  would  be  fair 
ashamed  to  hae  her.  We  used  to  hae  a  respect 
for  yer  name,  so  we  couldna  look  her  i'  the  face." 

"She's  mair  like  yer  dochter  than  yer  wife," 
said  another. 

"  Na,"  said  a  third,  "  naebody  could  mistak  her 
for  yer  dochter.  She's  ower  young-like  for  that." 

"  Wi'  the  siller  you'll  leave  her,  Jeames,"  Tam- 
mas  Haggart  told  him,  "  she'll  get  a  younger  man 
for  her  second  venture." 

All  this  was  very  trying  to  the  newly-married 
man,  who  was  thirsting  for  sympathy.  Hendry 
was  the  person  whom  he  took  into  his  confidence. 

"  It  may  hae  been  foolish  at  my  time  o'  life," 
Hendry  reported  him  to  have  said,  "  but  I  couldna 
help  it.  If  they  juist  kent  her  better  they  couldna 
but  see  'at  she's  a  terrible  takkin'  crittur." 

Jeames  was  generous ;  indeed  he  had  come 
home  with  the  intention  of  scattering  largess.  A 
beggar  met  him  one  day  on  the  brae,  and  got  a 
shilling  from  him.  She  was  waving  her  arms 
triumphantly  as  she  passed  Hendry's  house,  and 
Leeby  got  the  story  from  her. 

"  Eh,  he's  a  fine  man  that,  an'  a  saft  ane,"  the 
woman  said.  "  I  juist  speired  at  'im  hoc  his 
bonny  wife  was,  an'  he  oot  wi'  a  shillin* !  " 

98 


MAKING   THE  BEST   OF   IT 

Leeby  did  not  keep  this  news  to  herself  and 
soon  it  was  through  the  town.  Jeames's  face 
began  to  brighten. 

"  They're  comin'  round  to  a  mair  sensible  wy 
o'  lookin'  at  things,"  he  told  Hendry.  "  I  was 
walkin'  wi'  the  wife  i'  the  buryin'  ground  yester- 
day, an'  we  met  Kitty  McQueen.  She  was  ane  o' 
the  warst  agin  me  at  first,  but  she  telt  me  i'  the 
buryin'  ground  'at  when  a  man  mairit  he  should 
please  'imsel.  Oh,  they're  comin'  round." 

What  Kitty  told  Jess  was  — 

"  I  minded  o'  the  tinkler  wuman  'at  he  gae  a 
shillin*  to,  so  I  thocht  I  would  butter  up  at  the 
auld  fule  too.  Weel,  I  assure  ye,  I  had  nae  suner 
said  'at  he  was  rale  wise  to  marry  wha  he  likit  than 
he  slips  a  pound  note  into  my  hand.  Ou,  Jess, 
we've  ta'en  the  wrang  wy  wi'  Jeames.  I've  telt  a' 
my  bairns  'at  if  they  meet  him  they're  to  praise  the 
wife  terrible,  an'  I'm  far  mista'en  if  that  doesna 
mean  five  shillin's  to  ilka  ane  o'  them." 

Jean  Whamond  got  a  pound  note  for  saying 
that  Jeames's  wife  had  an  uncommon  pretty  voice, 
and  Davit  Lunan  had  ten  shillings  for  a  judicious 
word  about  her  attractive  manners.  Tibbie  Birse 
invited  the  newly-married  couple  to  tea  (one 
pound). 

"  They're  takkin'  to  her,  they're  takkin'  to  her," 
Jeames  said,  gleefully.  "  I  kent  they  would  come 
round  in  time.  Ay,  even  my  mother,  'at  was  sae 

99 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

mad  at  first,  sits  for  hours  noo  aside  her,  haudin' 
her  hand.     They're  juist  inseparable." 

The  time  came  when  we  had  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Geogehan  and  Eppie  to  tea. 

"  It's  true  enough,"  Leeby  ran  ben  to  tell  Jess, 
"  'art:  Eppie  an'  the  wife's  fond  o'  ane  another.  I 
wouldna  hae  believed  it  o'  Eppie  if  I  hadna  seen 
it,  but  I  assure  ye  they  sat  even  at  the  tea-table 
haudin'  ane  another's  hands.  I  waurant  they're 
doin't  this  meenute." 

"  I  wasna  born  on  a  Sabbath,"  retorted  Jess.  "Na, 
na,  dinna  tell  me  Eppie' s  fond  o'  her.  Tell  Eppie 
to  come  but  to  the  kitchen  when  the  tea's  ower." 

Jess  and  Eppie  had  half  an  hour's  conversation 
alone,  and  then  our  guests  left. 

"  It's  a  richt  guid  thing,"  said  Hendry,  "  'at 
Eppie  has  ta'en  sic  a  notion  o'  the  wife." 

"  Ou,  ay,"  said  Jess. 

Then  Hendry  hobbled  out  of  the  house. 

"  What  said  Eppie  to  ye  ?  "  Leeby  asked  her 
mother. 

"  Juist  what  I  expeckit,"  Jess  answered.  "  Ye 
see  she's  dependent  on  Jeames,  so  she  has  to  but- 
ter up  at  'im." 

"  Did  she  say  onything  aboot  haudin'  the  wife's 
hand  sae  fond-like  ?  " 

"  Ay,  she  said  it  was  an  awfu'  trial  to  her,  an* 
'at  it  sickened  her  to  see  Jeames  an'  the  wife  baith 
believin'  'at  she  likit  to  do't." 

100 


CHAPTER  XIV 

VISITORS  AT  THE  MANSE. 

ON  bringing  home  his  bride,  the  minister  showed 
her  to  us,  and  we  thought  she  would  do  when  she 
realized  that  she  was  not  the  minister.  ^She  was  a 
grand  lady  from  Edinburgh,  though  very  frank, 
and  we  simple  folk  amused  her  a  good  deal,  espe- 
cially when  we  were  sitting  cowed  in  the  manse 
parlour  drinking  a  dish  of  tea  with  her,  as  hap- 
pened to  Leeby,  her  father,  and  me,  three  days 
before  Jamie  came  home. 

Leeby  had  refused  to  be  drawn  into  conversa- 
tion, like  one  who  knew  her  place,  yet  all  her  ac- 
tions were  genteel  and  her  monosyllabic  replies  in 
the  Englishy  tongue,  as  of  one  who  was,  after  all- 
a  little  above  the  common.  When  the  minister'r- 
wife  asked  her  whether  she  took  sugar  and  cream, 
she  said  politely,  "  If  you  please  "  (though  she  did 
not  take  sugar),  a  reply  that  contrasted  with  Hen- 
dry's  equally  well-intended  answer  to  the  same 
question.  "  I'm  no  partikler,"  was  what  Hendry 
said. 

Hendry  had  left  home  glumly,  declaring  tkat 

101 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

the  white  collar  Jess  had  put  on  him  would 
throttle  him ;  but  her  feikieness  ended  in  his  sur- 
render, and  he  was  looking  unusually  perjink. 
Had  not  his  daughter  been  present  he  would 
have  been  the  most  at  ease  of  the  company,  but  her 
manners  were  too  fine  not  to  make  an  impression 
upon  one  who  knew  her  on  her  every-day  behav- 
iour, and  she  had  also  ways  of  bringing  Hendry 
to  himself  by  a  touch  beneath  the  table.  It  was 
in  church  that  Leeby  brought  to  perfection  her 
manner  of  looking  after  her  father.  When  he 
had  confidence  in  the  preacher's  soundness,  he 
would  sometimes  have  slept  in  his  pew  if  Leeby 
had  not  had  a  watchful  foot.  She  wakened  him 
in  an  instant,  while  still  looking  modestly  at  the 
pulpit ;  however  reverently  he  might  try  to  fall 
over,  Leeby's  foot  went  out.  She  was  such  an 
artist  that  I  never  caught  her  in  the  act.  All  I 
knew  for  certain  was  that,  now  and  then,  Hendry 
suddenly  sat  up. 

The  ordeal  was  over  when  Leeby  went  upstairs 
to  put  on  her  things.  After  tea  Hendry  had  be- 
come bolder  in  talk,  his  subject  being  ministerial. 
He  had  an  extraordinary  knowledge,  got  no  one 
knew  where,  of  the  matrimonial  affairs  of  all  the 
ministers  in  these  parts,  and  his  stories  about  them 
ended  frequently  with  a  chuckle.  He  always 
took  it  for  granted  that  a  minister's  marriage  was 
womanhood's  great  triumph,  and  that  the  par- 

102 


VISITORS    AT   THE  MANSE 

ticular  woman  who  got  him  must  be  very  clever. 
Some  of  his  tales  were  even  more  curious  than  he 
thought  them,  such  as  the  one  Leeby  tried  to 
interrupt  by  saying  we  must  be  going. 

"  There's  Mr.  Pennycuick,  noo,"  said  Hendry* 
shaking  his  head  in  wonder  at  what  he  had  to 
tell;  "him  'at's  minister  at  Tilliedrum.  Weel, 
when  he  was  a  probationer  he  was  michty  poor,  an' 
one  day  he  was  walkin'  into  Thrums  frae  Glen 
Quharity,  an'  he  tak's  a  rest  at  a  little  housey  on 
the  road.  The  fowk  didna  ken  him  ava,  but  they 
saw  he  was  a  minister,  an'  the  lassie  was  sorry  to 
see  him  wi'  sic  an  auld  hat.  What  think  ye  she 
did?" 

"  Come  away,  father,"  said  Leeby,  re-entering 
the  parlour;  but  Hendry  was  now  in  full  pursuit 
of  his  story. 

"  I'll  tell  ye  what  she  did,"  he  continued.  "  She 
juist  took  his  hat  awa,  an'  put  her  father's  new 
ane  in  its  place,  an'  Mr.  Pennycuick  never  kent 
the  differ  till  he  landed  in  Thrums.  It  was  terrible 
kind  o'  her.  Ay,  but  the  old  man  would  be  in  a 
michty  rage  when  he  found  she  had  swappit  the 
hats." 

"  Come  away,"  said  Leeby,  still  politely,  though 
she  was  burning  to  tell  her  mother  how  Hendry 
had  disgraced  them. 

"  The  minister,"  said  Hendry,  turning  his  back 
on  Leeby,  "  didna  forget  the  lassie.  Na ;  as  sune 

103 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

as  he  got  a  kirk,  he  married  her.  Ay,  she  got  her 
reward.  He  married  her.  It  was  rale  noble  of 
'im." 

I  do  not  know  what  Leeby  said  to  Hendry 
when  she  got  him  beyond  the  manse  gate,  for  I 
stayed  behind  to  talk  to  the  minister.  As  it  turned 
out,  the  minister's  wife  did  most  of  the  talking, 
smiling  good-humouredly  at  country  gawkiness 
the  while. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  Thrums, 
though  those  teas  to  the  congregation  are  a  little 
trying.  Do  you  know,  Thrums  is  the  only  place 
I  was  ever  in  where  it  struck  me  that  the  men  are 
cleverer  than  the  women." 

She  told  us  why. 

"  Well,  to-night  affords  a  case  in  point.  Mr. 
McQumpha  was  quite  brilliant,  was  he  not,  in 
comparison  with  his  daughter  ?  Really  she  seemed 
so  put  out  at  being  at  the  manse  that  she  could 
not  raise  her  eyes.  I  question  if  she  would  know 
me  again,  and  I  am  sure  she  sat  in  the  room  as  one 
blindfolded.  I  left  her  in  the  bedroom  a  minute, 
and  I  assure  you,  when  I  returned  she  was  still 
standing  on  the  same  spot  in  the  centre  of  the 
floor." 

I  pointed  out  that  Leeby  had  been  awestruck. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  said ;  "  but  it  is  a  pity  she 
cannot  make  use  of  her  eyes,  if  not  of  her  tongue. 
Ah,  the  Thrums  women  are  good,  I  believe,  but 

104 


VISITORS   AT   THE   MANSE 

their  wits  are  sadly  in  need  of  sharpening.  I 
daresay  it  comes  of  living  in  so  small  a  place." 

I  overtook  Leeby  on  the  brae,  aware,  as  I  saw 
her  alone,  that  it  had  been  her  father  whom  I 
passed  talking  to  Tammas  Haggart  in  the  Square. 
Hendry  stopped  to  have  what  he  called  a  tove 
with  any  likely  person  he  encountered,  and,  indeed, 
though  he  and  I  often  took  a  walk  on  Saturdays, 
I  generally  lost  him  before  we  were  clear  of  the 
town. 

In  a  few  moments  Leeby  and  I  were  at  home 
to  give  Jess  the  news. 

"  Whaur's  yer  father  ?  "  asked  Jess,  as  if  Hen- 
dry's  way  of  dropping  behind  was  still  unknown 
to  her. 

"  Ou,  I  left  him  speakin'  to  Gavin  Birse,"  said 
Leeby.  "  I  daursay  he's  awa  to  some  hoose." 

"  It's  no  very  silvendy  (safe)  his  comin'  ower 
the  brae  by  himsel,"  said  Jess,  adding  in  a  bitter 
tone  of  conviction,  "but  he'll  gang  in  to  no  hoose 
as  lang  as  he's  so  weel  dressed.  Na,  he  would 
think  it  boastfu'." 

I  sat  down  to  a  book  by  the  kitchen  fire ;  but, 
as  Leeby  became  communicative,  I  read  less  and 
less.  While  she  spoke  she  was  baking  bannocks 
with  all  the  might  of  her,  and  Jess,  leaning 
forward  in  her  chair,  was  arranging  them  in  a 
semicircle  round  the  fire. 

"Na,"  was  the  first  remark  of  Leeby's  that 
105 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

came  between  me  and  my  book,  "it  is  no  new 
furniture." 

"  But  there  was  three  cart-loads  o't,  Leeby,  sent 
on  frae  Edinbory.  Tibbie  Birse  helpit  to  lift  it  in, 
and  she  said  the  parlour  furniture  beat  a'." 

"  Ou,  it's  substantial,  but  it  is  no  new.  I  sepad 
it  had  been  bocht  cheap  second-hand,  for  the  chair 
I  had  was  terrible  scratched  like,  an',  what's  mair, 
the  airm-chair  was  a  heap  shinnier  than  the  rest." 

"  Ay,  ay,  I  wager  it  had  been  new  stuffed.  Tib- 
bie said  the  carpet  cowed  for  grandeur  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dinna  deny  it's  a  guid  carpet ;  but  if  it's 
been  turned  once  it's  been  turned  half  a  dozen 
times,  so  it's  far  frae  new.  Ay,  an'  forby,  it  was 
rale  threadbare  aneath  the  table,  so  ye  may  be  sure 
they've  been  cuttin't  an'  puttin'  the  worn  pairt 
whaur  it  would  be  least  seen." 

"  They  say  'at  there's  twa  grand  gas  brackets  i' 
the  parlour,  an  a  wonderfu'  gasoliery  i'  the  dinin'- 
room'?" 

"  We  wasna  i'  the  dinin'-room,  so  I  ken  naething 
aboot  the  gasoliery ;  but  I'll  tell  ye  what  the  gas 
brackets  is.  I  recognized  them  immeditly.  Ye 
mind  the  auld  gasoliery  i'  the  dinin'-room  had  twa 
lichts?  Ay,  then,  the  parlour  brackets  is  made 
oot  o'  the  auld  gasoliery." 

"  Weel,  Leeby,  as  sure  as  ye're  standin'  there, 
that  passed  through  my  head  as  sune  as  Tibbie 
mentioned  them ! " 

106 


VISITORS   AT   THE  MANSE 

"  There's  nae  doot  about  it.  Ay,  I  was  in  ane 
o*  the  bedrooms,  too ! " 

"  It  would  be  grand  ?  " 

"  I  wouldna  say  'at  it  was  partikler  grand,  but 
there  was  a  great  mask  (quantity)  o'  things  in't, 
an'  near  everything  was  covered  wi'  cretonne.  But 
the  chairs  dinna  match.  There  was  a  very  bonny- 
painted  cloth  alang  the  chimley  —  what  they  call 
a  mantelpiece  border,  I  warrant." 

"  Sal,  I've  often  wondered  what  they  was." 

"  Well,  I  assure  ye  they  winna  be  ill  to  mak, 
for  the  border  was  juist  nailed  upon  a  board  laid 
on  the  chimley.  There's  naething  to  hender's 
makin'  ane  for  the  room." 

"  Ay,  we  could  sew  something  on  the  border  in- 
stead o'  paintin't.  The  room  lookit  weel,  ye  say  ?  '•' 

"  Yes,  but  it  was  economically  furnished.  There 
was  nae  carpet  below  the  wax-cloth ;  na,  there  was 
nane  below  the  bed  either." 

"  Was't  a  grand  bed  ?  " 

"It  had  a  fell  lot  o'  brass  aboot  it,  but  there 
was  juist  one  pair  o'  blankets.  I  thocht  it  was  gey 
shabby,  hae'n  the  ewer  a  different  pattern  frae  the 
basin;  ay,  an'  there  was  juist  a  poker  in  the  fire- 
place, there  was  nae  tangs." 

"  Yea,  yea ;  they'll  hae  but  one  set  o'  bedroom 
fireirons.  The  tangs'll  be  in  anither  room.  Tod, 
that's  no  sae  michty  grand  for  Edinbory.  What 
like  was  she  hersel  ?  " 

107 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"Ou,  very  ladylike  and  saft  spoken.  She's  a 
canty  body  an'  frank.  She  wears  her  hair  low  on 
the  left  side  to  hod  (hide)  a  scar,  an'  there's  twa 
warts  on  her  richt  hand." 

"  There  hadna  been  a  fire  i'  the  parlour  ?  " 
"No,  but  it  was  ready  to  licht.     There  was 
sticks  and  paper  in't.     The  paper  was  oot  o'  a 
dressmaker's  journal." 

"  Ye  say  so  ?  She'll  mak  her  ain  frocks,  I  sepad." 
When  Hendry  entered  to  take  off  his  collar  and 
coat  before  sitting  down  to  his  evening  meal  of 
hot  water,  porter,  and  bread  mixed  in  a  bowl,  Jess 
sent  me  off  to  the  attic.  As  I  climbed  the  stairs 
I  remembered  that  the  minister's  wife  thought 
Leeby  in  need  of  sharpening. 


108 


CHAPTER  XV 

HOW  GAVIN  BIRSE  PUT  IT  TO  MAG  LOWNIE 

IN  a  wet  day  the  rain  gathered  in  blobs  on  the 
road  that  passed  our  garden.  Then  it  crawled 
into  the  cart-tracks  until  the  road  was  streaked 
with  water.  Lastly,  the  water  gathered  in  heavy 
yellow  pools.  If  the  on-ding  still  continued, 
clods  of  earth  toppled  from  the  garden  dyke  into 
the  ditch. 

On  such  a  day,  when  even  the  dulse  man  had 
gone  into  shelter,  and  the  women  scudded  by  with 
their  wrappers  over  their  heads,  came  Gavin  Birse  to 
our  door.  Gavin,  who  was  the  Glen  Quharity  post, 
was  still  young,  but  had  never  been  quite  the  same 
man  since  some  amateurs  in  the  glen  ironed  his 
back  for  rheumatism.  I  thought  he  had  called  to 
have  a  crack  with  me.  He  sent  his  compliments 
up  to  the  attic,  however,  by  Leeby,  and  would  I 
come  and  be  a  witness  ? 

Gavin  came  up  and  explained.  He  had  taken 
off  his  scarf  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  lest  the 
rain  should  take  the  colour  out  of  it.  His  boots 
cheeped,  and  his  shoulders  had  risen  to  his  ears. 
He  stood  steaming  before  my  fire. 

109 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"  If  it's  no'  ower  muckle  to  ask  ye,"  he  said,  "  I 
would  like  ye  for  a  witness.** 

"  A  witness !  But  for  what  do  you  need  a  wit- 
ness, Gavin  ?  " 

"  I  want  ye,"  he  said,  "  to  come  wi'  me  to  Mag's, 
and  be  a  witness." 

Gavin  and  Mag  Birse  had  been  engaged  for  a 
year  or  more.  Mag  was  the  daughter  of  Janet 
Ogilvy,  who  was  best  remembered  as  the  body 
that  took  the  hill  (that  is,  wandered  about  it)  for 
twelve  hours  on  the  day  Mr.  Dishart,  the  Auld 
Licht  minister,  accepted  a  call  to  another  church. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Gavin,"  I  asked, 
"  that  your  marriage  is  to  take  place  to-day  *?  " 

By  the  twist  of  his  mouth  I  saw  that  he  was 
only  deferring  a  smile. 

**  Far  frae  that,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  then,  you  have  quarrelled,  and  I  am  to 
speak  up  for  you  ?  " 

"Na,  na,"  he  said,  "I  dinna  want  ye  to  do  that 
above  all  things.  It  would  be  a  favour  if  ye  could 
gie  me  a  bad  character." 

This  beat  me,  and,  I  daresay,  my  face  showed  it 

"  I'm  no'  juist  what  ye  would  call  anxious  to 
marry  Mag  noo,"  said  Gavin,  without  a  tremor. 

I  told  him  to  go  on. 

"  There's  a  lassie  oot  at  Craigiebuckle,"  he  ex- 
plained, "  workin'  on  the  farm  —  Jeanie  Luke  by 
name.  Ye  may  ha'e  seen  her  ?  " 

110 


HOW   GAVIN   BIRSE   PUT   IT 

"  What  of  her  ?  "  I  asked,  severely. 

"Weel,"   said    Gavin,   still   unabashed,    "I'm 

thinkin'  noo  'at  I  would  rather  ha'e  her." 
Then  he  stated  his  case  more  fully. 
"Ay,  I  thocht  I  liked  Mag  oncommon  till  I 

saw  Jeanie,  an'  I  like  her  fine  yet,  but  I  prefer  the 

other  ane.     That  state  o'  matters  canna  gang  on 

for  ever,  so  I  came  into  Thrums  the  day  to  settle 

't  one  wy  or  another." 

"And  how,"  I  asked,  "do  you  propose  going 

about  it?     It  is  a  somewhat  delicate  business." 
"  Ou,  I  see  nae  great  difficulty  in  't.     I'll  speir 

at  Mag,  blunt  oot,  if  she'll  let  me  aff.     Yes,  I'll 

put  it  to  her  plain." 

"  You're  sure  Jeanie  would  take  you  ?  " 

"  Ay ;  oh,  there's  nae  fear  o'  that." 

"  But  if  Mag  keeps  you  to  your  bargain  ?  " 

"  Weel,  in  that  case  there's  nae  harm  done." 

"  You  are  in  a  great  hurry,  Gavin  ?  " 

"  Ye  may  say  that ;  but  I  want  to  be  married. 

The  wifie  I  lodge  wi'  canna  last  lang,  an'  I  would 

like  to  settle  doon  in  some  place." 

"  So  you  are  on  your  way  to  Mag's  now  ?  " 
"  Ay,  we'll  get  her  in  atween  twal'  and  ane." 
"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  why  do  you  want  me  to  go  with 

you?" 

"  I  want  ye  for  a  witness.     If  she  winna  let  me 

aff,  weel  and  guid ;  and  if  she  will,  it's  better  to  hae 

a  witness  in  case  she  should  go  back  on  her  word." 

ill 


A  WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

Gavin  made  his  proposal  briskly,  and  as  coolly 
as  if  he  were  only  asking  me  to  go  fishing ;  but  I 
did  not  accompany  him  to  Mag's.  He  left  the 
house  to  look  for  another  witness,  and  about  an 
hour  afterwards  Jess  saw  him  pass  with  Tammas 
Haggart.  Tammas  cried  in  during  the  evening  to 
tell  us  how  the  mission  prospered. 

"  Mind  ye,"  said  Tammas,  a  drop  of  water  hang- 
ing to  the  point  of  his  nose, "  I  disclaim  all  responsi- 
bility in  the  business.  I  ken  Mag  weel  for  a  thrifty, 
respectable  woman,  as  her  mither  was  afore  her,  and 
so  I  said  to  Gavin  when  he  came  to  speir  me." 

"Ay,  mony  a  pirn  has  'Lisbeth  filled  to  me," 
said  Hendry,  settling  down  to  a  reminiscence. 

"  No  to  be  ower  hard  on  Gavin,"  continued  Tam- 
mas, forestalling  Hendry,  "  he  took  what  I  said  in 
guid  part ;  but  aye  when  I  stopped  speakin'  to  draw 
breath,  he  says, '  The  queistion  is,  will  ye  come  wi' 
me  ? '  He  was  michty  made  up  in  's  mind." 

"  Weel,  ye  went  wi'  him,"  suggested  Jess,  who 
wanted  to  bring  Tammas  to  the  point. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  stone-breaker,  "  but  no  in  sic  a 
hurry  as  that." 

He  worked  his  mouth  round  and  round,  to  clear 
the  course,  as  it  were,  for  a  sarcasm. 

"  Fowk  often  say,"  he  continued,  "  'at  'am  quick 
beyond  the  ordinar'  in  seeing  the  humorous  side  o' 
things." 

Here  Tammas  paused,  and  looked  at  us. 

112 


HOW   GAVIN   BIRSE   PUT   IT 

"  So  ye  are,  Tammas,"  said  Hendry.  "  Losh, 
ye  mind  hoo  ye  saw  the  humorous  side  o'  me 
wearin'  a  pair  o'  boots  'at  wisna  marrows!  No, 
the  ane  had  a  toe-piece  on,  an'  the  other  hadna." 

"  Ye  juist  wore  them  sometimes  when  ye  was 
delvin',"  broke  in  Jess,  "  ye  have  as  guid  a  pair  o> 
boots  as  ony  in  Thrums." 

"  Ay,  but  I  had  worn  them,"  said  Hendry,  "  at 
odd  times  for  mair  than  a  year,  an'  I  had  never 
seen  the  humorous  side  o'  them.  Weel,  as  fac  as 
death  (here  he  addressed  me),  Tammas  had  juist 
seen  them  twa  or  three  times  when  he  saw  the 
humorous  side  o'  them.  Syne  I  saw  their  humor- 
ous side,  too,  but  no  till  Tammas  pointed  it  oot." 

"  That  was  naething,"  said  Tammas,  "  naething 
ava  to  some  things  I've  done." 

"  But  what  aboot  Mag  ?  "  said  Leeby. 

"  We  wasna  that  length,  was  we  *?  "  said  Tam- 
mas. "  Na,  we  was  speakin'  aboot  the  humorous 
side.  Ay,  wait  a  wee,  I  didna  mention  the  humor- 
ous side  for  naething." 

He  paused  to  reflect. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said  at  last,  brightening  up,  "  I 
was  sayin'  to  ye  hoo  quick  I  was  to  see  the 
humorous  side  o'  onything.  Ay,  then,  what  made 
me  say  that  was  'at  in  a  clink  (flash)  I  saw  the 
humorous  side  o'  Gavin's  position." 

"  Man,  man,"  said  Hendry,  admiringly,  "  and 
what  is  't?" 

"3 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"Oh,  it's  this,  there's  something  humorous  in 
speirin'  a  woman  to  let  ye  aff  so  as  ye  can  be  mar- 
ried to  another  woman." 

"  I  daursay  there  is,"  said  Hendry,  doubtfully. 

"  Did  she  let  him  afF?  "  asked  Jess,  taking  the 
words  out  of  Leeby's  mouth. 

"  I'm  comin'  to  that,"  said  Tammas.  "  Gavin 
proposes  to  me  after  I  had  haen  my  laugh  — 

"  Yes,"  cried  Hendry,  banging  the  table  with  his 
fist,  "  it  has  a  humorous  side.  Ye're  richt  again, 
Tammas." 

"  I  wish  ye  wadna  blatter  (beat)  the  table,"  said 
Jess,  and  then  Tammas  proceeded. 

"Gavin  wanted  me  to  tak'  paper  an'  ink  an'  a 
pen  wi'  me,  to  write  the  proceedins  doon,  but  I 
said,  '  Na,  na,  I'll  tak'  paper,  but  no  nae  ink  nor 
nae  pen,  for  there'll  be  ink  an'  a  pen  there.'  That 
was  what  I  said." 

"  An'  did  she  let  him  afff  "  asked  Leeby. 

"  Weel,"  said  Tammas,  "  aff  we  goes  to  Mag's 
hoose,  an'  sure  enough  Mag  was  in.  She  was 
alone,  too;  so  Gavin,  no  to  waste  time,  juist  sat 
doon  for  politeness'  sake,  an'  syne  rises  up  again ; 
an  says  he, '  Marget  Lownie,  I  hae  a  solemn  ques- 
tion to  speir  at  ye,  namely  this,  Will  you,  Marget 
Lownie,  let  me,  Gavin  Birse,  aff? ' ' 

"  Mag  would  start  at  that  *?  " 

"  Sal,  she  was  braw  an'  cool.  I  thocht  she  maun 
ha'e  got  wind  o'  his  intentions  aforehand,  for  she 

114 


HOW   GAVIN  BIRSE  PUT   IT 

juist  replies,  quiet-like,  '  Hoo  do  ye  want  aff, 
Gavin?' 

"  *  Because,'  says  he,  like  a  book,  *  my  affections 
has  undergone  a  change.' 

" '  Ye  mean  Jean  Luke,'  says  Mag. 

" '  That  is  wha  I  mean,'  says  Gavin,  very  strait- 
forrard." 

"  But  she  didna  let  him  aff,  did  she  ?  " 

"  Na,  she  wasna  the  kind.  Says  she,  *  I  wonder 
to  hear  ye,  Gavin,  but  'am  no  goin'  to  agree  to 
naething  o'  that  sort.' 

" '  Think  it  ower,'  says  Gavin. 

" '  Na,  my  mind's  made  up,'  said  she. 

" '  Ye  would  sune  get  anither  man,'  he  says, 
earnestly. 

"  *  Hoo  do  I  ken  that  ? '  she  speirs,  rale  sensi- 
bly, I  thocht,  for  men's  no  sae  easy  to  get. 

" '  'Am  sure  oj  't,'  Gavin  says,  wi'  michty  con- 
viction in  his  voice,  'for  ye're  bonny  to  look  at, 
an'  weel-kent  for  bein'  a  guid  body.' 

" '  Ay,'  says  Mag, '  I'm  glad  ye  like  me,  Gavin, 
for  ye  have  to  tak  me.' " 

"  That  put  a  clincher  on  him,"  interrupted 
Hendry. 

"  He  was  loth  to  gie  in,"  replied  Tammas,  "  so 
he  says,  '  Ye  think  'am  a  fine  character,  Marget 
Lownie,  but  ye're  very  far  mista'en.  I  wouldna 
wonder  but  what  I  was  lossin'  my  place  some  o' 
thae  days,  an'  syne  whaur  would  ye  be  *?  —  Marget 

IK 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

Lownie,'  he  goes  on,  *  'am  nat'  rally  lazy  an'  fond  o' 
the  drink.  As  sure  as  ye  stand  there,  'am  a  reglar 
deevil ! ' " 

"  That  was  strong  language,"  said  Hendry, "  but 
he  would  be  wantin'  to  fleg  (frighten)  her  ?  " 

"  Juist  so,  but  he  didna  manage  't,  for  Mag 
says, '  We  a'  ha'e  oor  faults,  Gavin,  an'  deevil  or 
no  deevil,  ye're  the  man  for  me  ! ' 

"  Gavin  thocht  a  bit,"  continued  Tammas,  "  an* 
syne  he  tries  her  on  a  new  tack.  *  Marget  Lownie,' 
he  says,  'yer  father's  an  auld  man  noo,  an'  he 
has  naebody  but  yersel  to  look  after  him.  I'm 
thinkin'  it  would  be  kind  o'  cruel  o'  me  to  tak  ye 
awa  frae  him  *? ' ' 

"Mag  wouldna  be  ta'en  wi*  that;  she  wasna 
born  on  a  Sawbath,"  said  Jess,  using  one  of  her 
favourite  sayings. 

"  She  wasna,"  answered  Tammas.  "  Says  she, 
'  Hae  nae  fear  on  that  score,  Gavin ;  my  father's 
fine  willin'  to  spare  me  ! ' ' 

"An'  that  ended  it?" 

"  Ay,  that  ended  it." 

"  Did  ye  tak  it  doun  in  writin'  *?  "asked  Hendry. 

"  There  was  nae  need,"  said  Tammas,  handing 
round  his  snuff-mull.  "  No,  I  never  touched  paper. 
When  I  saw  the  thing  was  settled,  I  left  them  to 
their  coortin'.  They're  to  tak  a  look  at  Snecky 
Hobart's  auld  hoose  the  nicht.  It's  to  let." 


116 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  SON  FROM  LONDON 

IN  the  spring  of  the  year  there  used  to  come  to 
Thrums  a  painter  from  nature  whom  Hendry 
spoke  of  as  the  drawer.  He  lodged  with  Jess  in 
my  attic,  and  when  the  weavers  met  him  they  said, 
"Weel,  drawer,"  and  then  passed  on,  grinning. 
Tammas  Haggart  was  the  first  to  say  this. 

The  drawer  was  held  a  poor  man  because  he 
straggled  about  the  country  looking  for  subjects 
for  his  draws,  and  Jess,  as  was  her  way,  gave  him 
many  comforts  for  which  she  would  not  charge. 
That,  I  daresay,  was  why  he  painted  for  her  a  little 
portrait  of  Jamie.  When  the  drawer  came  back 
to  Thrums  he  always  found  the  painting  in  a  frame, 
in  the  room.  Here  I  must  make  a  confession 
about  Jess.  She  did  not  in  her  secret  mind  think 
the  portrait  quite  the  thing,  and  as  soon  as  the 
drawer  departed  it  was  removed  from  the  frame  to 
make  way  for  a  calendar.  The  deception  was 
very  innocent,  Jess  being  anxious  not  to  hurt  the 
donor's  feelings. 

To  those  who  have  the  artist's  eye,  the  picture, 
117 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

which  hangs  in  my  school-house  now,  does  not 
show  a  handsome  lad,  Jamie  being  short  and 
dapper,  with  straw-coloured  hair,  and  a  chin  that 
ran  away  into  his  neck.  That  is  how  I  once  re- 
garded him,  but  I  have  little  heart  for  criticism  of 
those  I  like,  and,  despite  his  madness  for  a  season, 
of  which,  alas,  I  shall  have  to  tell,  I  am  always 
Jamie's  friend.  Even  to  hear  any  one  disparaging 
the  appearance  of  Jess's  son  is  to  me  a  pain. 

All  Jess's  acquaintances  knew  that  in  the  be- 
ginning of  every  month  a  registered  letter  reached 
her  from  London.  To  her  it  was  not  a  matter  to 
keep  secret.  She  was  proud  that  the  help  she  and 
Hendry  needed  in  the  gloaming  of  their  lives 
should  come  from  her  beloved  son,  and  the  neigh- 
bours esteemed  Jamie  because  he  was  good  to  his 
mother.  Jess  had  more  humour  than  any  other 
woman  I  have  known  while  Leeby  was  but  spar- 
ingly endowed  ;  yet,  as  the  month  neared  its  close, 
it  was  the  daughter  who  put  on  the  humorist,  Jes* 
thinking  money  too  serious  a  thing  to  jest  about. 
Then  if  Leeby  had  a  moment  for  gossip,  as  when 
ironing  a  dickey  for  Hendry,  and  the  iron  was  a 
trifle  too  hot,  she  would  look  archly  at  me  before 
addressing  her  mother  in  these  words : 

"  Will  he  send,  think  ye  ?  " 

Jess,  who  had  a  conviction  that  he  would  send, 
affected  surprise  at  the  question. 

"  Will  Jamie  send  this  month,  do  ye  mean? 
118 


THE  SON   FROM   LONDON 

Na,  oh,  losh  no !  it's  no  to  be  expeckit.  Na,  he 
couldna  do't  this  time." 

"  That's  what  ye  aye  say,  but  he  aye  sends.  Yes, 
an'  vara  weel  ye  ken  'at  he  will  send." 

"  Na,  na,  Leeby ;  dinna  let  me  ever  think  o'  sic 
a  thing  this  month." 

"  As  if  ye  wasna  thinkin'  o't  day  an'  nicht ! " 

"  He's  terrible  mindfu',  Leeby,  but  he  doesna 
hae't.  Na,  no  this  month;  mebbe  next  month." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  mother,  'at  ye'll  no 
be  up  oot  o'  yer  bed  on  Monunday  an  hour  afore 
yer  usual  time,  lookin'  for  the  post  *?  " 

"  Na,  no  this  time.  I  may  be  up,  an'  tak  a  look 
for  'im,  but  no  expeckin'  a  registerdy ;  na,  na,  that 
wouldna  be  reasonable." 

"  Reasonable  here,  reasonable  there,  up  you'll 
be,  keekin'  (peering)  through  the  blind  to  see  if 
the  post's  comin',  ay,  an'  what's  mair,  the  post  will 
come,  and  a  registerdy  in  his  hand  wi'  fifteen 
shillings  in't  at  the  least." 

"  Dinna  say  fifteen,  Leeby ;  I  would  never  think 
o'  sic  a  sum.  Mebbe  five  —  " 

"  Five !  I  wonder  to  hear  ye.  Vera  weel  you 
ken  'at  since  he  had  twenty-twa  shillings  in  the 
week  he's  never  sent  less  than  half  a  sovereign." 

"  No,  but  we  canna  expeck  —  " 

"  Expeck !     No,  but  it's  no  expeck,  it's  get" 

On  the  Monday  morning  when  I  came  down- 
stairs, Jess  was  in  her  chair  by  the  window,  beam- 

119 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

ing,  a  piece  of  paper  in  her  hand.  I  did  not  re- 
quire to  be  told  about  it,  but  I  was  told.  Jess  had 
been  up  before  Leeby  could  get  the  fire  lit,  with 
great  difficulty  reaching  the  window  in  her  bare 
feet,  and  many  a  time  had  she  said  that  the  post 
must  be  by. 

"  Havers,"  said  Leeby,  "  he  winna  be  for  an 
hour  yet.  Come  awa'  back  to  your  bed." 

"  Na,  he  maun  be  by,"  Jess  would  say  in  a  few 
minutes ;  "  ou,  we  couldna  expeck  this  month." 

So  it  went  on  until  Jess's  hand  shook  the  blind. 

"  He's  comin',   Leeby,  he's  comin'.     He'll  no 

hae  naething,  na,  I  couldna  expeck He's 

by!" 

"  I  dinna  believe  it,"  cried  Leeby,  running  to 
the  window,  "  he's  juist  at  his  tricks  again." 

This  was  in  reference  to  a  way  our  saturnine 
post  had  of  pretending  that  he  brought  no  letters 
and  passing  the  door.  Then  he  turned  back. 
"  Mistress  McQumpha,"  he  cried,  and  whistled. 

"  Run,  Leeby,  run,"  said  Jess,  excitedly. 

Leeby  hastened  to  the  door,  and  came  back  with 
a  registered  letter. 

"  Registerdy,"  she  cried  in  triumph,  and  Jess, 
with  fond  hands,  opened  the  letter.  By  the  time 
I  came  down  the  money  was  hid  away  in  a  box 
beneath  the  bed,  where  not  even  Leeby  could  find 
it,  and  Jess  was  on  her  chair  hugging  the  letter. 
She  preserved  all  her  registered  envelopes. 

120 


This  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  in  Thrums 
when  Jamie  was  expected  for  his  ten  days'  holiday, 
and  for  a  week  we  discussed  little  else.  Though 
he  had  written  saying  when  he  would  sail  for 
Dundee,  there  was  quite  a  possibility  of  his  ap- 
pearing on  the  brae  at  any  moment,  for  he  liked 
to  take  Jess  and  Leeby  by  surprise.  Hendry  there 
was  no  surprising,  unless  he  was  in  the  mood  for 
it,  and  the  coolness  of  him  was  one  of  Jess's 
grievances.  Just  two  years  earlier  Jamie  came 
north  a  week  before  his  time,  and  his  father  saw 
him  from  the  window.  Instead  of  crying  out  in 
amazement  or  hacking  his  face,  for  he  was  shaving 
at  the  time,  Henry  calmly  wiped  his  razor  on  the 
window-sill,  and  said  — 

"  Ay,  there's  Jamie." 

Jamie  was  a  little  disappointed  at  being  seen 
in  this  way,  for  he  had  been  looking  forward  for 
four  and  forty  hours  to  repeating  the  sensation  of 
the  year  before.  On  that  occasion  he  had  got  to 
the  door  unnoticed,  where  he  stopped  to  listen.  I 
daresay  he  checked  his  breath,  the  better  to  catch 
his  mother's  voice,  for  Jess  being  an  invalid,  Jamie 
thought  of  her  first.  He  had  Leeby  sworn  to  write 
the  truth  about  her,  but  many  an  anxious  hour 
he  had  on  hearing  that  she  was  "  complaining  fell 
(considerably)  about  her  back  the  day,"  Leeby,  as 
he  knew,  being  frightened  to  alarm  him.  Jamie, 
too,  had  given  his  promise  to  tell  exactly  how  he 

121 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS 

was  keeping,  but  often  he  wrote  that  he  was  "fine  " 
when  Jess  had  her  doubts.  When  Hendry  wrote 
he  spread  himself  over  the  table,  and  said  that  Jess 
was  "juist  about  it,"  or  "  aff  and  on,"  which  does 
not  tell  much.  So  Jamie  hearkened  painfully  at 
the  door,  and  by  and  by  heard  his  mother  say  to 
Leeby  that  she  was  sure  the  teapot  was  running 
out.  Perhaps  that  voice  was  as  sweet  to  him  as 
the  music  of  a  maiden  to  her  lover,  but  Jamie  did 
not  rush  into  his  mother's  arms.  Jess  has  told  me 
with  a  beaming  face  how  craftily  he  behaved.  The 
old  man,  of  lungs  that  shook  Thrums  by  night,  who 
went  from  door  to  door  selling  firewood,  had  a 
way  of  shoving  doors  rudely  open  and  crying  — 

"  Ony  rozetty  roots  ?  "  and  him  Jamie  imitated. 

"  Juist  think,"  Jess  said,  as  she  recalled  the  in- 
cident, "  what  a  startle  we  got  As  we  think, 
Pete  kicks  open  the  door  and  cries  oot,  '  Ony 
rozetty  roots  4?  '  and  Leeby  says  '  No,'  and  gangs 
to  shut  the  door.  Next  minute  she  screeches, 
*  What,  what,  what ! '  and  in  walks  Jamie  ! " 

Jess  was  never  able  to  decide  whether  it  was 
more  delightful  to  be  taken  aback  in  this  way  or 
to  prepare  for  Jamie.  Sudden  excitement  was  bad 
for  her  according  to  Hendry,  who  got  his  medical 
knowledge  second-hand  from  persons  under  treat- 
ment, but  with  Jamie's  appearance  on  the  threshold 
Jess's  health  began  to  improve.  This  time  he  kept 
to  the  appointed  day,  and  the  house  was  turned 

122 


THE   SON   FROM   LONDON 

upside  down  in  his  honour.  Such  a  polish  did 
Leeby  put  on  the  flagons  which  hung  on  the 
kitchen  wall,  that,  passing  between  them  and  the 
window,  I  thought  once  I  had  been  struck  by 
lightning.  On  the  morning  of  the  day  that  was  to 
bring  him,  Leeby  was  up  at  two  o'clock,  and  eight 
hours  before  he  could  possibly  arrive  Jess  had  a 
night-shirt  warming  for  him  at  the  fire.  I  was  no 
longer  anybody,  except  as  a  person  who  could  give 
Jamie  advice.  Jess  told  me  what  I  was  to  say. 
The  only  thing  he  and. his  mother  quarrelled  about 
was  the  underclothing  she  would  swaddle  him  in, 
and  Jess  asked  me  to  back  her  up  in  her  entreaties. 

"  There's  no  a  doubt,"  she  said,  "  but  what  it's 
a  hantle  caulder  here  than  in  London,  an'  it  would 
be  a  terrible  business  if  he  was  to  tak  the  cauld." 

Jamie  was  to  sail  from  London  to  Dundee,  and 
come  on  to  Thrums  from  Tilliedrum  in  the  post- 
cart.  The  road  at  that  time,  however,  avoided 
the  brae,  and  at  a  certain  point  Jamie's  custom  was 
to  alight,  and  take  the  short  cut  home,  along  a 
farm  road  and  up  the  commonty.  Here,  too, 
Hookey  Crewe,  the  post,  deposited  his  passenger's 
box.  which  Hendry  wheeled  home  in  a  barrow. 
Long  before  the  cart  had  lost  sight  of  Tilliedrum, 
Jess  was  at  her  window. 

"  Tell  her  Hockey's  often  late  on  Monundays," 
Leeby  whispered  to  me,  "  for  she'll  gang  oot  o' 
her  mind  if  she  thinks  there's  onything  wrang." 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

Soon  Jess  was  painfully  excited,  though  she  sat 
as  still  as  salt. 

"It  maun  be  yer  time,"  she  said,  looking  at 
both  Leeby  and  me,  for  in  Thrums  we  went  out 
and  met  our  friends. 

"Hoots,"  retorted  Leeby,  trying  to  be  hardy, 
"  Hookey  canna  be  oot  o'  Tilliedrum  yet." 

"  He  maun  hae  startit  lang  syne." 

"  I  wonder  at  ye,  mother,  puttin'  yersel  in  sic  a 
state.  Ye'll  be  ill  when  he  comes." 

"  Na,  am  no  in  nae  state,  Leeby,  but  there'll  no 
be  nae  accident,  will  there  ?  " 

"  It's  most  provokin'  'at  ye  will  think  'at  every 
time  Jamie  steps  into  a  machine  there'll  be  an  ac- 
cident. Am  sure  if  ye  would  tak  mair  after  my 
father,  it  would  be  a  blessin'.  Look  hoo  cool  he 
is." 

"  Whaur  is  he,  Leeby  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dinna  ken.  The  henmost  time  I  saw 
him  he  was  layin'  doon  the  law  aboot  something 
to  T'nowhead." 

"It's  an  awfu'  wy  that  he  has  o'  ga'en  oot 
withoot  a  word.  I  wouldna  wonder  'at  he's  no 
bein'  in  time  to  meet  Jamie,  an'  that  would  be  a 
pretty  business." 

"  Od,  ye're  sure  he'll  be  in  braw  time." 

'*  But  he  hasna  ta'en  the  barrow  wi'  him,  an' 
hoo  is  Jamie's  luggage  to  be  brocht  up  withoot  a 
barrow  «  " 

124 


THE   SON   FROM   LONDON 

"  Barrow !  He  took  the  barrow  to  the  saw-mill 
an  hour  syne  to  pick  it  up  at  Rob  Angus's  on  the 
wy." 

Several  times  Jess  was  sure  she  saw  the  cart  in 
the  distance,  and  implored  us  to  be  off. 

"  I'll  tak  no  settle  till  ye're  awa,"  she  said,  her  face 
now  flushed  and  her  hands  working  nervously. 

"  We've  time  to  gang  and  come  twa  or  three 
times  yet,"  remonstrated  Leeby;  but  Jess  gave 
me  so  beseeching  a  look  that  I  put  on  my  hat. 
Then  Hendry  dandered  in  to  change  his  coat 
deliberately,  and  when  the  three  of  us  set  off,  we 
left  Jess  with  her  eye  on  the  door  by  which  Jamie 
must  enter.  He  was  her  only  son  now,  and  she 
had  not  seen  him  for  a  year. 

On  the  way  down  the  commonty,  Leeby  had 
the  honour  of  being  twice  addressed  as  Miss  Me- 
Qumpha,  but  her  father  was  Hendry  to  all,  which 
shows  that  we  make  our  social  position  for  our- 
selves. Hendry  looked  forward  to  Jamie's  annual 
appearance  only  a  little  less  hungrily  than  Jess, 
but  his  pulse  still  beat  regularly.  Leeby  would 
have  considered  it  almost  wicked  to  talk  of  any- 
thing except  Jamie  now,  but  Hendry  cried  out 
comments  on  the  tatties,  yesterday's  roup,  the  fall 
in  jute,  to  everybody  he  encountered.  When  he 
and  a  crony  had  their  say  and  parted,  it  was  their 
custom  to  continue  the  conversation  in  shouts 
until  they  were  out  of  hearing. 

12C 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

Only  to  Jess  at  her  window  was  the  cart  late 
that  afternoon.  Jamie  jumped  from  it  in  the  long 
great-coat  that  had  been  new  to  Thrums  die  year 
before,  and  Hendry  said  calmly  — 

"  Ay,  Jamie." 

Leeby  and  Jamie  made  signs  that  they  recog- 
nized each  other  as  brother  and  sister,  but  I  was 
the  only  one  with  whom  he  shook  hands.  He 
was  smart  in  his  movements  and  quite  the  gentle- 
man, but  the  Thrums  ways  took  hold  of  him  again 
at  once.  He  even  inquired  for  his  mother  in  a 
tone  that  was  meant  to  deceive  me  into  thinking 
he  did  not  care  how  she  was. 

Hendry  would  have  had  a  talk  out  of  him  on 
the  spot,  but  was  reminded  of  the  luggage.  We 
took  the  heavy  farm  road,  and  soon  we  were 
at  the  saw-mill.  I  am  naturally  leisurely,  but 
we  climbed  the  commonty  at  a  stride.  Jamie 
pretended  to  be  calm,  but  in  a  dark  place  I  saw 
him  take  Leeby's  hand,  and  after  that  he  said 
not  a  word.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  elbow  of 
the  brae,  where  he  would  come  into  sight  of  his 
mother's  window.  Many,  many  a  time,  I  know, 
that  lad  had  prayed  to  God  for  still  another  sight 
of  the  window  with  his  mother  at  it.  So  we 
came  to  the  corner  where  the  stile  is  that  Sam'l 
Dickie  jumped  in  the  race  for  T'nowhead's  Bell, 
and  before  Jamie  was  the  house  of  his  childhood 

126 


THE   SON   FROM   LONDON 

and  his  mother's  window,  and  the  fond,  anxious 
face  of  his  mother  herself.  My  eyes  are  dull, 
and  I  did  not  see  her,  but  suddenly  Jamie  cried 
out,  "  My  mother ! "  and  Leeby  and  I  were  left 
behind.  When  I  reached  the  kitchen  Jess  was 
crying,  and  her  son's  arms  were  round  her  neck. 
I  went  away  to  my  attic. 

There  was  only  one  other  memorable  event 
of  that  day.  Jamie  had  finished  his  tea,  and  we 
all  sat  round  him,  listening  to  his  adventures  and 
opinions.  He  told  us  how  the  country  should  be 
governed,  too,  and  perhaps  put  on  airs  a  little. 
Hendry  asked  the  questions,  and  Jamie  answered 
them  as  pat  as  if  he  and  his  father  were  going 
through  the  Shorter  Catechism.  When  Jamie 
told  anything  marvellous,  as  how  many  towels 
were  used  at  the  shop  in  a  day,  or  that  twopence 
was  the  charge  for  a  single  shave,  his  father  screwed 
his  mouth  together  as  if  preparing  to  whistle,  and 
then  instead  made  a  curious  clucking  noise  with 
his  tongue,  which  was  reserved  for  the  expression 
of  absolute  amazement.  As  for  Jess,  who  was 
given  to  making  much  of  me,  she  ignored  my 
remarks  and  laughed  hilariously  at  jokes  of 
Jamie's  which  had  been  received  in  silence  from 
me  a  few  minutes  before. 

Slowly  it  came  to  me  that  Leeby  had  something 
on  her  mind,  and  that  Jamie  was  talking  to  her 

127 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

with  his  eyes.  I  learned  afterwards  that  they 
were  plotting  how  to  get  me  out  of  the  kitchen, 
but  were  too  impatient  to  wait.  Thus  it  was  that 
the  great  event  happened  in  my  presence.  Jamie 
rose  and  stood  near  Jess  —  I  daresay  he  had 
planned  the  scene  frequently.  Then  he  produced 
from  his  pocket  a  purse,  and  coolly  opened  it 
Silence  fell  upon  us  as  we  saw  that  purse.  From 
it  he  took  a  neatly-folded  piece  of  paper,  crumpled 
it  into  a  ball,  and  flung  it  into  Jess's  lap. 

I  cannot  say  whether  Jess  knew  what  it  was. 
Her  hand  shook,  and  for  a  moment  she  let  the  ball 
of  paper  lie  there. 

"  Open't  up,"  cried  Leeby,  who  was  in  the  secret. 

"  What  's't  ?  "  asked  Hendry,  drawing  nearer. 

"  It's  juist  a  bit  paper  Jamie  flung  at  me,"  said 
Jess,  and  then  she  unfolded  it. 

"  It's  a  five-pound  note ! "  cried  Hendry. 

"Na,  na,  oh  keep  us,  no,"  said  Jess;  but  she 
knew  it  was. 

For  a  time  she  could  not  speak. 

"  I  canna  tak  it,  Jamie,"  she  faltered  at  last. 

But  Jamie  waved  his  hand,  meaning  that  it  was 
nothing,  and  then,  lest  he  should  burst,  hurried  out 
into  the  garden,  where  he  walked  up  and  down 
whistling.  May  God  bless  the  lad,  thought  I.  I 
do  not  know  the  history  of  that  five-pound  note, 
but  well  aware  I  am  that  it  grew  slowly  out  of 
pence  and  silver,  and  that  Jamie  denied  his  pas- 

128 


THE   SON   FROM   LONDON 

sions  many  things  for  this  great  hour.  His  sacri- 
fices watered  his  young  heart  and  kept  it  fresh  and 
tender.  Let  us  no  longer  cheat  our  consciences 
by  talking  of  filthy  lucre.  Money  may  always  be 
a  beautiful  thing.  It  is  we  who  make  it  grimy. 


CHAPTER   XVli 

A   HOME   FOR   GENIUSES 

FROM  hints  he  had  let  drop  at  odd  times  I  knew 
that  Tammas  Haggart  had  a  scheme  for  geniuses, 
but  not  until  the  evening  after  Jamie's  arrival  did 
I  get  it  out  of  him.  Hendry  was  with  Jamie  at 
the  fishing,  and  it  came  about  that  Tammas  and  I 
had  the  pig-sty  to  ourselves. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  when  we  had  got  a  grip  of 
the  subject,  "  I  dount  pretend  as  my  ideas  is  to  be 
followed  withoot  deeviation,  but  ondootedly  some- 
thing should  be  done  for  geniuses,  them  bein'  aboot 
the  only  class  as  we  do  naething  for.  Yet  they're 
fowk  to  be  prood  o',  an'  we  shouldna  let  them 
overdo  the  thing,  nor  run  into  debt;  na,  na. 
There  was  Robbie  Burns,  noo,  as  real  a  genius 
as  ever  —  " 

At  the  pig-sty,  where  we  liked  to  have  more 
than  one  topic,  we  had  frequently  to  tempt  Tam- 
mas away  from  Burns. 

"Your  scheme,"  I  interposed,  "is  for  living 
geniuses,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  "  them  'afs  gone 
130 


A   HOME  FOR  GENIUSES 

canna  be  brocht  back.  Weel,  my  idea  is  'at  a 
Home  should  be  built  for  geniuses  at  the  public 
expense,  whaur  they  could  all  live  thegither,  an 
be  decently  looked  after.  Na,  no  in  London; 
that's  no  my  plan,  but  I  would  hae't  within  an 
hour's  distance  o'  London,  say  five  mile  frae  the 
market-place,  an'  standin'  in  a  bit  garden,  whaur 
the  geniuses  could  walk  aboot  arm-in-arm,  com- 
posin'  their  minds." 

"  You  would  have  the  grounds  walled  in,  I  sup- 
pose, so  that  the  public  could  not  intrude  ?  " 

"  Weel,  there's  a  difficulty  there,  because,  ye'll 
observe,  as  the  public  would  support  the  insti- 
tootion,  they  would  hae  a  kind  o'  richt  to  look  in. 
How-some-ever,  I  daur  say  we  could  arrange  to 
fling  the  grounds  open  to  the  public  once  a  week 
on  condition  'at  they  didna  speak  to  the  geniuses. 
I'm  thinkin'  'at  if  there  was  a  small  chairge  for 
admission  the  Home  could  be  made  self-supportin'. 
Losh !  to  think  'at  if  there  had  been  sic  an  insti- 
tootion  in  his  time  a  man  micht  hae  sat  on  the  bit 
dyke  and  watched  Robbie  Burns  danderin'  roond 
the—" 

"You  would  divide  the  Home  into  suites  of 
rooms,  so  that  every  inmate  would  have  his  own 
apartments  *?  " 

"  Not  by  no  means ;  na,  na.  The  mair  I  read 
aboot  geniuses  the  mair  clearly  I  see  as  their  wy 
o'  living  alane  ower  muckle  is  ane  o'  the  things  as 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

breaks  doon  their  health,  and  makes  them  meeser- 
able.  P  the  Home  they  would  hae  a  bedroom 
apiece,  but  the  parlour  an'  the  other  sittin'-rocms 
would  be  for  all,  so  as  they  could  enjoy  ane  an- 
otner's  company.  The  management?  Oh,  that's 
aisy.  The  superintendent  would  be  a  medical 
man  appointed  by  Parliament,  and  he  would  hae 
men-servants  to  do  his  biddin'." 

"  Not  all  men-servants,  surely  ?  " 

"  Every  one  o'  them.  Man,  geniuses  is  no  to  be 
trusted  wi'  womenfolk.  No,  even  Robbie  Bu — " 

"  So  he  did ;  but  would  the  inmates  have  to  put 
themselves  entirely  in  the  superintendent's  hands'?  " 

"  Nae  doubt ;  an'  they  would  see  it  was  the  wisest 
thing  they  could  do.  He  would  be  careful  o'  their 
health,  an'  send  them  early  to  bed  as  weel  as  hae 
them  up  at  eight  sharp.  Geniuses'  healths  is 
always  breakin'  doon  because  of  late  hours,  as  in 
the  case  o'  the  lad  wha  used  often  to  begin  his  im- 
mortal writin's  at  twal  o'clock  at  nicht,  a  thing  'at 
would  ruin  ony  constitootion.  But  the  superin- 
tendent would  see  as  they  had  a  tasty  supper  at 
nine  o'clock  —  something  as  agreed  wi'  them. 
Then  for  half  an  hour  they  would  quiet  their  brains 
readin'  oot  aloud,  time  about,  frae  sic  a  book  as 
the  'Pilgrim's  Progress,'  an'  the  gas  would  be 
turned  aff  at  ten  precisely." 

"  When  would  you  have  them  up  in  the  morn- 
ing *" 

132 


A   HOME  FOR  GENIUSES 

"At  sax  in  summer  an'  seven  in  winter.  The 
superintendent  would  see  as  they  were  all  properly 
bathed  every  mornin',  cleanliness  bein'  most  im- 
portant for  the  preservation  o'  health." 

"  This  sounds  well ;  but  suppose  a  genius  broke 
the  rules — lay  in  bed,  for  instance,  reading  by  the 
light  of  a  candle  after  hours,  or  refused  to  take  his 
bath  in  the  morning  *?  " 

"  The  superintendent  would  hae  to  punish  him. 
The  genius  would  be  sent  back  to  his  bed,  maybe. 
An'  if  he  lay  lang  i'  the  mornin'  he  would  hae  to 
gang  withoot  his  breakfast." 

"  That  would  be  all  very  well  where  the  inmate 
only  broke  the  regulations  once  in  a  way;  but 
suppose  he  were  to  refuse  to  take  his  bath  day 
after  day  (and,  you  know,  geniuses  are  said  to  be 
eccentric  in  that  particular),  what  would  be  done  *? 
You  could  not  starve  him;  geniuses  are  too 
scarce." 

"  Na,  na;  in  a  case  like  that  he  would  ,hae  to  be 
reported  to  the  public.  The  thing  would  hae  to 
come  afore  the  Hoose  of  Commons.  Ay,  the 
superintendent  would  get  a  member  o'  the  Oppo- 
seetion  to  ask  a  queistion  such  as  'Can  the  honour- 
able gentleman,  the  Secretary  of  State  for  Home 
Affairs,  inform  the  Hoose  whether  it  is  a  fac  that 
Mr.  Sic-a-one,  the  well-known  genius,  at  present 
resident  in  the  Home  for  Geniuses,  has,  contrairy 
to  regulations,  perseestently  and  obstinately  refused 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

to  change  his  linen ;  and,  if  so,  whether  the  Govern- 
ment proposes  to  take  ony  steps  in  the  matter  ? ' 
The  newspapers  would  report  the  discussion  next 
mornin',  an'  so  it  would  be  made  public  withoot 
onnecessary  ootlay." 

"  In  a  general  way,  however,  you  would  give 
the  geniuses  perfect  freedom  ?  They  could  work 
when  they  liked,  and  come  and  go  when  they 
liked?" 

"Not  so.  The  superintendent  would  fix  the 
hours  o'  wark,  an'  they  would  all  write,  or  what- 
ever it  was,  thegither  in  one  large  room.  Man, 
man,  it  would  mak  a  grand  draw  for  a  painter- 
chield,  that  room,  wi'  all  the  geniuses  working 
awa'  thegither." 

"  But  when  the  labors  of  the  day  were  over  the 
genius  would  be  at  liberty  to  make  calls  by  him- 
self or  to  run  up,  say,  to  London  for  an  hour  or 
two?" 

"  Hoots  no,  that  would  spoil  everything.  It's 
the  drink,  ye  see,  as  does  for  a  terrible  lot  o' 
geniuses.  Even  Rob  —  " 

"  Alas !  yes.  But  would  you  have  them  all 
teetotalers  ?  " 

"  What  do  ye  tak  me  for  *?  Na,  na ;  the  super- 
intendent would  allow  them  one  glass  o'  toddy 
every  nicht,  an'  mix  it  himsel ;  but  he  would  never 
get  the  keys  o'  the  press,  whaur  he  kept  the  drink, 
oot  o'  his  hands.  They  would  never  be  allowed 

'34 


A   HOME   FOR  GENIUSES 

oot  o  the  gairden  either,  withoot  a  man  to  look 
after  them;  an'  I  wouldna  burthen  them  wi'  ower 
muckle  pocket-money.  Saxpence  in  the  week 
would  be  suffeecient." 

"  How  about  their  clothes  ?  " 

"  They  would  get  twa  suits  a  year,  wi'  the  letter 
G  sewed  on  the  shoulders,  so  as  if  they  were  lost 
they  could  be  recognized  and  brocht  back." 

"  Certainly  it  is  a  scheme  deserving  considera- 
tion, and  I  have  no  doubt  our  geniuses  would 
jump  at  it;  but  you  must  remember  that  some  of 
them  would  have  wives." 

"Ay,  an'  some  o'  them  would  hae  husbands. 
I've  been  thinkin'  that  oot,  an'  I  daur  say  the  best 
plan  would  be  to  partition  aff  a  pairt  o'  the  Home 
for  female  geniuses." 

"  Would  Parliament  elect  the  members  ?  " 

"  I  wouldna  trust  them.  The  election  would 
hae  to  be  by  competitive  examination.  Na,  I 
canna  say  wha  would  draw  up  the  queistions.  The 
scheme's  juist  growin'  i'  my  mind,  but  the  mair  I 
think  o't  the  better  I  like  it." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

LEEBY  AND  JAMIE 

BY  the  bank  of  the  Quharity  on  a  summer  day  I 
have  seen  a  barefooted  girl  gaze  at  the  running 
water  until  tears  filled  her  eyes.  That  was  the 
birth  of  romance.  Whether  this  love  be  but  a 
beautiful  dream  I  cannot  say,  but  this  we  see,  that 
it  comes  to  all,  and  colours  the  whole  future  life 
with  gold.  Leeby  must  have  dreamt  it,  but  I  did 
not  know  her  then.  I  have  heard  of  a  man  who 
would  have  taken  her  far  away  into  a  county 
where  the  corn  is  yellow  when  it  is  still  green  with 
us,  but  she  would  not  leave  her  mother,  nor  was  it 
him  she  saw  in  her  dream.  From  her  earliest  days, 
when  she  was  still  a  child  staggering  round  the 
garden  with  Jamie  in  her  arms,  her  duty  lay  before 
her,  straight  as  the  burying-ground  road.  Jess  had 
need  of  her  in  the  little  home  at  the  top  of  the 
brae,  where  God,  looking  down  upon  her  as  she 
scrubbed  and  gossipped  and  sat  up  all  night  with 
her  ailing  mother,  and  never  missed  the  prayer- 
meeting,  and  adored  the  minister,  did  not  perhaps 
think  her  the  least  of  His  handmaids.  Her  years 
were  less  than  thirty  when  He  took  her  away,  but 

136 


LEEBY   AND  JAMIE 

she  had  few  days  that  were  altogether  dark.  Those 
who  bring  sunshine  to  the  lives  of  others  cannot 
keep  it  from  themselves. 

The  love  Leeby  bore  for  Jamie  was  such  that 
in  their  younger  days  it  shamed  him.  Other  laddies 
knew  of  it,  and  flung  it  at  him  until  he  dared 
Leeby  to  let  on  in  public  that  he  and  she  were 
related. 

"  Hoo  is  your  lass  ?  "  they  used  to  cry  to  him, 
inventing  a  new  game. 

"  I  saw  Leeby  lookin'  for  ye,"  they  would  say ; 
"  she's  wearyin'  for  ye  to  gang  an'  play  wi'  her." 

Then  if  they  were  not  much  bigger  boys  than 
himself,  Jamie  got  them  against  the  dyke  and  hit 
them  hard  until  they  publicly  owned  to  knowing 
that  she  was  his  sister,  and  that  he  was  not  fond  of 
her. 

"  It  distressed  him  mair  than  ye  could  believe, 
though,"  Jess  has  told  me ;  "  an'  when  he  came 
hame  he  would  greet  an'  say  'at  Leeby  disgraced 
him." 

Leeby,  of  course,  suffered  for  her  too  obvious 
affection. 

"I  wonder  'at  ye  dinna  try  to  control  yersel," 
Jamie  would  say  to  her,  as  he  grew  bigger. 

"  Am  sure,"  said  Leeby,  "  I  never  gie  ye  a  look 
if  there's  onybody  there." 

"  A  look  !  You're  ay  lookin'  at  me  sae  fond-like 
'at  I  dinna  ken  what  wy  to  turn." 

137 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"  Weel,  I  canna  help  it,"  said  Leeby,  probably 
beginning  to  whimper. 

If  Jamie  was  in  a  very  bad  temper  he  left  her, 
after  this,  to  her  own  reflections ;  but  he  was  natu- 
rally soft-hearted. 

"  Am  no  tellin'  ye  no  to  care  for  me,"  he  told 
her,  "  but  juist  to  keep  it  mair  to  yersel.  Nae- 
body  would  ken  frae  me  'at  am  fond  o'  ye." 

"  Mebbe  yer  no  ?  "  said  Leeby. 

"  Ay,  am  I,  but  I  can  keep  it  secret.  When 
we're  in  the  hoose  am  juist  richt  fond  o'  ye." 

"  Do  ye  love  me,  Jamie  *?  " 

Jamie  waggled  his  head  in  irritation. 

"  Love,"  he  said,  "  is  an  awful  like  word  to  use 
when  fowk's  weel.  Ye  shouldna  speir  sic  annoyin' 
queistions." 

"But  if  ye  juist  say  ye  love  me  I'll  never  let  on 
again  afore  fowk  'at  yer  onything  to  me  ava." 

"  Ay,  ye  often  say  that." 

"  Do  ye  no  believe  my  word  ?  " 

"  I  believe  fine  ye  mean  what  ye  say,  but  ye 
forget  yersel  when  the  time  comes." 

"  Juist  try  me  this  time." 

"  Weel,  then,  I  do." 

"  Do  what  ?  "  asked  the  greedy  Leeby. 

"  What  ye  said." 

"  I  said  love." 

"  Well,"  said  Jamie,  "  I  do't." 

*'  What  do  ye  do  ?     Say  the  word." 

138 


LEEBY   AND  JAMIE 

"  Na,"  said  Jamie,  "  I  winna  say  the  word.  It's 
no  a  word  to  say,  but  I  do't." 

That  was  all  she  could  get  out  of  him,  unless  he 
was  stricken  with  remorse,  when  he  even  went  the 
length  of  saying  the  word. 

"  Leeby  kent  perfectly  weel,"  Jess  has  said,  "  'at 
it  was  a  trial  to  Jamie  to  tak  her  ony  gait,  an'  I 
often  used  to  say  to  her  'at  I  wondered  at  her  want 
o'  pride  in  priggin*  wi'  him.  Ay,  but  if  she  could 
juist  get  a  promise  wrung  oot  o'  him,  she  didna 
care  hoo  muckle  she  had  to  prig.  Syne  they 
quarrelled,  an'  ane  or  baith  o'  them  grat  (cried) 
afore  they  made  it  up.  I  mind  when  Jamie  went 
to  the  fishin'  Leeby  was  aye  terrible  keen  to  get  wi' 
him,  but  ye  see  he  wouldna  be  seen  gaen  through 
the  toon  wi'  her.  *  If  ye  let  me  gang,'  she  said  to 
him,  '  I'll  no  seek  to  go  through  the  toon  wi'  ye. 
Na,  I'll  gang  roond  by  the  Roods  an'  you  can  tak  the 
buryin'-ground  road,  so  as  we  can  meet  on  the 
hill.'  Yes,  Leeby  was  willin'  to  agree  wi'  a'  that, 
juist  to  get  gaen  wi'  him.  I've  seen  lassies  mak- 
kin'  themsels  sma'  for  lads  often  enough,  but  I 
never  saw  ane  'at  prigged  so  muckle  wi'  her  ain 
brother.  Na,  it's  other  lassies'  brothers  they  like 
as  a  rule." 

'*  But  though  Jamie  was  terrible  reserved  aboot 
it,"  said  Leeby,  "he  was  as  fond  o'  me  as  ever  I 
was  o'  him.  Ye  mind  the  time  I  had  the  measles, 
mother  ?  " 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS 

"  Am  no  likely  to  forget  it,  Leeby,"  said  Jess, 
"an*  you  blind  wi'  them  for  three  days.  Ay,  ay, 
Jamie  was  richt  taen  up  aboot  ye.  I  mind  he 
broke  open  his  pirly  (money-box),  an'  bocht  a 
ha'penny  worth  o'  something  to  ye  every  day " 
"  An'  ye  hinna  forgotten  the  stick  ?  " 
"  'Deed  no,  I  hinna.  Ye  see,"  Jess  explained  to 
me,  "  Leeby  was  lyin'  ben  the  hoose,  an'  Jamie 
wasna  allowed  to  gang  near  her  for  fear  o'  infec- 
tion. Weel,  he  gat  a  lang  stick  —  it  was  a  pea- 
stick —  an'  put  it  aneath  the  door  an'  waggled  it. 
Ay,  he  did  that  a  curran  times  every  day,  juist  to 

let  her  see  he  was  thinkin'  o'  her." 

( 

"  Mair  than  that,"  said  Leeby,  "  he  cried  oot  'at 
he  loved  me." 

"  Ay,  but  juist  aince,"  Jess  said,  "  I  dinna  mind 
o't  but  aince.  It  was  the  time  the  doctor  came 
late,  an'  Jamie,  being  waukened  by  him,  thocht  ye 
was  deein'.  I  mind  as  if  it  was  yesterday  hoo  he 
cam  runnin'  to  the  door  an'  cried  oot,  '  I  do  love 
ye,  Leeby;  I  love  ye  richt.'  The  doctor  got  a 
start  when  he  heard  the  voice,  but  he  laughed 
loud  when  he  un'erstood." 

"  He  had  nae  business,  though,"  said  Leeby,  "  to 
tell  onybody." 

"  He  was  a  rale  clever  man,  the  doctor,"  Jess 
explained  to  me,  "ay,  he  kent  me  as  weel  as 
though  he'd  gaen  through  me  wi'  a  lichted  candle. 
It  got  oot  through  him,  an'  the  young  billies  took 

140 


LEEBY   AND  JAMIE 

to  sayin'  to  Jamie, '  Ye  do  love  her,  Jamie ;  ay,  ye 
love  her  richt.'  The  only  reglar  fecht  I  ever  kent 
Jamie  hae  was  wi'  a  lad  'at  cried  that  to  him.  It 
was  Bowlegs  Chirsty's  laddie.  Ay,  but  when  she 
got  better  Jamie  blamed  Leeby." 

"  He  no  only  blamed  me,"  said  Leeby,  "  but  he 
wanted  me  to  pay  him  back  a'  the  bawbees  he 
had  spent  on  me." 

"Ay,  an'  I  sepad  he  got  them  too,"  said  Jess. 

In  time  Jamie  became  a  barber  in  Tilliedrum, 
trudging  many  heavy  miles  there  and  back  twice 
a  day  that  he  might  sleep  at  home,  trudging 
bravely  I  was  to  say,  but  it  was  what  he  was  born 
to,  and  there  was  hardly  an  alternative.  This  was 
the  time  I  saw  most  of  him,  and  he  and  Leeby 
were  often  in  my  thoughts.  There  is  as  terrible  a 
bubble  in  the  little  kettle  as  on  the  cauldron  of  the 
world,  and  some  of  the  scenes  between  Jamie  and 
Leeby  were  great  tragedies,  comedies,  what  you 
will,  until  the  kettle  was  taken  off  the  fire.  Hers 
was  the  more  placid  temper;  indeed,  only  in  one 
way  could  Jamie  suddenly  rouse  her  to  fury.  That 
was  when  he  hinted  that  she  had  a  large  number 
of  frocks.  Leeby  knew  that  there  could  never  be 
more  than  a  Sabbath  frock  and  an  everyday  gown 
for  her,  both  of  her  mother's  making,  but  Jamie's 
insinuations  were  more  than  she  could  bear.  Then 
I  have  seen  her  seize  and  shake  him.  I  know  from 
Jess  that  Leeby  cried  herself  hoarse  the  day  Joey 

141 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS 

was  buried,  because  her  little  black  frock  was  not 
ready  for  wear. 

Until  he  went  to  Tilliedrum  Jamie  had  been 
more  a  stay-at-home  boy  than  most.  The  warmth 
of  Jess's  love  had  something  to  do  with  keeping 
his  heart  aglow,  but  more,  I  think,  he  owed  to 
Leeby.  Tilliedrum  was  his  introduction  to  the 
world,  and  for  a  little  it  took  his  head.  I  was  in 
the  house  the  Sabbath  day  that  he  refused  to  go 
to  church. 

He  went  out  in  the  forenoon  to  meet  the  Tillie- 
drum lads,  who  were  to  take  him  off  for  a  holiday 
in  a  cart.  Hendry  was  more  wrathful  than  I  re- 
member ever  to  have  seen  him,  though  I  have 
heard  how  he  did  with  the  lodger  who  broke  the 
Lord's  Day.  This  lodger  was  a  tourist  who  thought, 
in  folly  surely  rather  than  in  hardness  of  heart,  to 
test  the  religious  convictions  of  an  Auld  Licht  by 
insisting  on  paying  his  bill  on  a  Sabbath  morning. 
He  offered  the  money  to  Jess,  with  the  warning 
that  if  she  did  not  take  it  now  she  might  never  see 
it.  Jess  was  so  kind  and  good  to  her  lodgers  that 
he  could  not  have  known  her  long  who  troubled 
her  with  this  poor  trick.  She  was  sorely  in  need 
at  the  time,  and  entreated  the  thoughtless  man  to 
have  some  pity  on  her. 

"  Now  or  never,"  he  said,  holding  out  the  money. 

"  Put  it  on  the  dresser,"  said  Jess  at  last,  "  an' 
I'll  get  it  the  morn," 

142 


LEEBY   AND  JAMIE 

The  few  shillings  were  laid  on  the  dresser,  where 
they  remained  unfingered  until  Hendry,  with  Leeby 
and  Jamie,  came  in  from  church. 

"  What  siller's  that  ?  "  asked  Hendry,  and  then 
Jess  confessed  what  she  had  done. 

"  I  wonder  at  ye,  woman,"  said  Hendry,  sternly; 
and  lifting  the  money  he  climbed  up  to  the  attic 
with  it. 

He  pushed  open  the  door,  and  confronted  the 
lodger. 

"  Take  back  yer  siller,"  he  said  laying  it  on  the 
table,  "  an'  leave  my  hoose.  Man,  you're  a  pitiable 
crittur  to  tak  the  chance,  when  I  was  oot,  o' 
playin'  upon  the  poverty  o'  an  onweel  woman." 

It  was  with  such  unwonted  severity  as  this  that 
Hendry  called  upon  Jamie  to  follow  him  to  church ; 
but  the  boy  went  off,  and  did  not  return  till  dusk, 
defiant  and  miserable.  Jess  had  been  so  terrified 
that  she  forgave  him  everything  for  sight  of  his 
face,  and  Hendry  prayed  for  him  at  family  worship 
with  too  much  unction.  But  Leeby  cried  as  if  her 
tender  heart  would  break.  For  a  long  time  Jamie 
refused  to  look  at  her,  but  at  last  he  broke  down. 

"  If  ye  go  on  like  that,"  he  said,  "  I'll  gang  awa 
oot  an'  droon  mysel,  or  be  a  sojer." 

This  was  no  uncommon  threat  of  his,  and 
sometimes,  when  he  went  off,  banging  the  door 
violently,  she  ran  after  him  and  brought  him  back. 
This  time  she  only  wept  the  more,  and  so  both 

H3 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

went  to  bed  in  misery.  It  was  after  midnight  that 
Jamie  rose  and  crept  to  Leeby's  bedside.  Leeby 
was  shaking  the  bed  in  her  agony.  Jess  heard 
what  they  said. 

"  Leeby,"  said  Jarnie, "  dinna  greet,  an'  I'll  never 
do't  again." 

He  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  she  kissed  him 
passionately. 

"  O,  Jamie,"  she  said,  "  hae  ye  prayed  to  God 
to  forgie  ye  ?  " 

Jamie  did  not  speak. 

"  If  ye  was  to  dfe  this  nicht,"  cried  Leeby,  "  an' 
you  no  made  it  up  wi'  God,  ye  wouldna  gang  to 
heaven.  Jamie,  I  canna  sleep  till  ye've  made  it 
up  wi'  God." 

But  Jamie  still  hung  back.  Leeby  slipped  from 
her  bed,  and  went  down  on  her  knees. 

"  O  God,  O  dear  God,"  she  cried,  "  mak  Jamie 
to  pray  to  you  !  " 

Then  Jamie  went  down  on  his  knees  too,  and 
they  made  it  up  with  God  together. 

This  is  a  little  thing  for  me  to  remember  all 
these  years,  and  yet  how  fresh  and  sweet  it  keeps 
Leeby  in  my  memory. 

Away  up  in  the  glen,  my  lonely  schoolhouse 
lying  deep,  as  one  might  say,  in  a  sea  of  snow,  I 
had  many  hours  in  the  years  long  by  for  thinking 
of  my  friends  in  Thrums  and  mapping  out  the 
future  of  Leeby  and  Jamie.  I  saw  Hendry  and 

144 


LEEBY   AND  JAMIE 

Jess  taken  to  the  churchyard,  and  Leeby  left  alone 
m  the  house.  I  saw  Jamie  fulfil  his  promise  to 
his  mother,  and  take  Leeby,  that  stainless  young 
woman,  far  away  to  London,  where  they  had  a 
home  together.  Ah,  but  these  were  only  the  idle 
dreams  of  a  dominie.  The  Lord  willed  it  other- 
wise. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  TALE   OF  A   GLOVE 

So  long  as  Jamie  was  not  the  lad,  Jess  twinkled 
gleefully  over  tales  of  sweethearting.  There  was 
little  Kitty  Lamby  who  used  to  skip  in  of  an 
evening,  and,  squatting  on  a  stool  near  the  window, 
unwind  the  roll  of  her  enormities.  A  wheedling 
thing  she  was,  with  an  ambition  to  drive  men 
crazy,  but  my  presence  killed  the  gossip  on  her 
tongue,  though  I  liked  to  look  at  her.  When  I 
entered,  the  wag  at  the  wa'  clock  had  again  pos- 
session of  the  kitchen.  I  never  heard  more  than 
the  end  of  a  sentence  : 

"  An'  did  he  really  say  he  would  fling  himsel  into 
the  dam,  Kitty?" 

Or  —  "True  as  death,  Jess,  he  kissed  me." 
Then  I  wandered  away  from  the  kitchen,  where 
I  was  not  wanted,  and  marvelled  to  know  that  Jess 
of  the  tender  heart  laughed  most  merrily  when  he 
really  did  say  that  he  was  going  straight  to  the 
dam.  As  no  body  was  found  in  the  dam  in  those 
days,  whoever  he  was  he  must  have  thought  better 
of  it 

146 


A   TALE  OF   A   GLOVE 

But  let  Kitty,  or  any  other  maid,  cast  a  glinting 
eye  on  Jamie,  then  Jess  no  longer  smiled.  If  he 
returned  the  glance  she  sat  silent  in  her  chair  till 
Leeby  laughed  away  her  fears. 

"Jamie's  no  the  kind,  mother,"  Leeby  would 
say.  "Na,  he's  quiet,  but  he  sees  through  them. 
They  dinna  draw  his  leg  (get  over  him)." 

"  Ye  never  can  tell,  Leeby.  The  laddies  'at's 
maist  ill  to  get  sometimes  gangs  up  in  a  flame  a* 
at  aince,  like  a  bit  o'  paper." 

"Ay,  weel,  at  ony  rate  Jamie's  no  on  fire  yet." 

Though  clever  beyond  her  neighbours,  Jess  lost 
all  her  sharpness  if  they  spoke  of  a  lassie  for  Jamie. 

"  I  warrant,"  Tibbie  Birse  said  one  day  in  my 
hearing,  "'at  there's  some  leddie  in  London  he's 
thmkin'  o'.  Ay,  he's  been  a  guid  laddie  to  ye,  but 
i'  the  course  o'  nature  he'll  be  settlin'  dune  soon." 

Jess  did  not  answer,  but  she  was  a  picture  of 
woe. 

"  Ye're  lettin'  what  Tibbie  Birse  said  lie  on  yer 
mind,"  Leeby  remarked,  when  Tibbie  was  gone. 
"  What  can  it  maiter  what  she  thinks  ?  " 

"  I  canna  help  it,  Leeby,"  said  Jess.  "  Na,  an' 
I  canna  bear  to  think  o'  Jamie  bein'  mairit.  It 
would  lay  me  low  to  loss  my  laddie.  No  yet, 
no  yet." 

"But,  mother,"  said  Leeby,  quoting  from  the 
minister  at  weddings,  •'  ye  wouldna  be  lossin'  a  son, 
but  juist  gainin'  a  dochter." 

H7 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS 

•*  Dinna  haver,  Leeby,"  answered  Jess,  "  I  want 
nane  o'  thae  dochters;  na,  na." 

This  talk  took  place  while  we  were  still  awaiting 
Jamie's  coming.  He  had  only  been  with  us  one 
day  when  Jess  made  a  terrible  discovery.  She  was 
looking  so  mournful  when  I  saw  her,  that  I  asked 
Leeby  what  was  wrong. 

"  She's  brocht  it  on  hersel,"  said  Leeby.  "  Ye 
see  she  was  up  sune  i'  the  mornin'  to  begin  to  the 
darnin'  o'  Jamie's  stockins  an'  to  warm  his  sark  at 
the  fire  afore  he  put  it  on.  He  woke  up,  an'  cried 
to  her  'at  he  wasna  accustomed  to  hae'n  his  things 
warmed  for  him.  Ay,  he  cried  it  oot  fell  thrawn, 
so  she  took  it  into  her  head  'at  there  was  something 
in  his  pouch  he  didna  want  her  to  see.  She  was 
even  onaisy  last  nicht." 

I  asked  what  had  aroused  Jess's  suspicions  last 
night. 

"Ou,  ye  would  notice  'at  she  sat  devourin'  him 
wi'  her  een,  she  was  so  lifted  up  at  hae'n  'im  again. 
Weel,  she  says  noo  'at  she  saw  'im  twa  or  three 
times  put  his  hand  in  his  pouch  as  if  he  was  findin' 
to  mak  sure  'at  something  was  safe.  So  when  he 
fell  asleep  again  this  mornin'  she  got  haud  o'  his 
jacket  to  see  if  there  was  onything  in't.  I  advised 
her  no  to  do't,  but  she  couldna  help  herself.  She 
put  in  her  hand,  an'  pu'd  it  oot.  That's  what's 
makkin'  her  look  sae  ill." 

"  But  what  was  it  she  found  ?  " 
148 


A   TALE   OF  A  GLOVE 

"  Did  I  no  tell  ye  ?  I'm  ga'en  dottle,  I  think. 
It  was  a  glove,  a  woman's  glove,  in  a  bit  paper. 
Ay,  though  she's  sittin'  still  she's  near  frantic." 

I  said  I  supposed  Jess  had  put  the  glove  back 
in  Jamie's  pocket. 

"  Na,"  said  Leeby,  "  'deed  no.  She  wanted  to 
fling  it  on  the  back  o'  the  fire,  but  I  wouldna  let 
her.  That's  it  she  has  aneath  her  apron." 

Later  in  the  day  I  remarked  to  Leeby  that  Jamie 
was  very  dull. 

"  He's  missed  it,"  she  explained. 

"  Has  any  one  mentioned  it  to  him,"  I  asked, 
"  or  has  he  inquired  about  it  ?  " 

"  Na,"  said  Leeby,  "  there  hasna  been  a  syllup 
(syllable)  aboot  it.  My  mother's  fleid  to  mention't, 
an'  he  doesna  like  to  speak  aboot  it  either." 

"  Perhaps  he  thinks  he  has  lost  it  *?  " 

"  Nae  fear  o'  him,"  Leeby  said.  "  Na,  he  kens 
fine  wha  has't." 

I  never  knew  how  Jamie  came  by  the  glove, 
nor  whether  it  had  originally  belonged  to  her  who 
made  him  forget  the  window  at  the  top  of  the  brae. 
At  the  time  I  looked  on  as  at  play-acting,  rejoicing 
in  the  happy  ending.  Alas  !  in  the  real  life  how 
are  we  to  know  when  we  have  reached  an  end  ? 

But  this  glove,  I  say,  may  not  have  been  that 
woman's,  and  if  it  was,  she  had  not  then  bedevilled 
him.  He  was  too  sheepish  to  demand  it  back 
from  his  mother,  and  already  he  cared  for  it  too 

149 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

much  to  laugh  at  Jess's  theft  with  Leeby.  So  it 
was  that  a  curious  game  at  chess  was  played  with 
the  glove,  the  players  a  silent  pair. 

Jamie  cared  little  to  read  books,  but  on  the  day 
following  Jess's  discovery,  I  found  him  on  his  knees 
in  the  attic,  looking  through  mine.  A  little  box, 
without  a  lid,  held  them  all,  but  they  seemed  a 
great  library  to  him. 

"  There's  readin'  for  a  lifetime  in  them,"  he  said. 
"  I  was  juist  takkin'  a  look  through  them." 

His  face  was  guilty,  however,  as  if  his  hand  had 
been  caught  in  a  money-bag,  and  I  wondered 
what  had  enticed  the  lad  to  my  books.  I  was  still 
standing  pondering  when  Leeby  ran  up  the  stair ; 
she  was  so  active  that  she  generally  ran,  and  she 
grudged  the  time  lost  in  recovering  her  breath. 

**  I'll  put  yer  books  richt,"  she  said,  making  her 
word  good  as  she  spoke.  "  I  kent  Jamie  had  been 
ransack  in'  up  here,  though  he  came  up  rale  canny. 
Ay,  ye  would  notice  he  was  in  his  stockin'  soles." 

I  had  not  noticed  this,  but  I  remembered  now 
his  slipping  from  the  room  very  softly.  If  he 
wanted  a  book,  I  told  Leeby,  he  could  have  got  it 
without  any  display  of  cunning. 

"  It's  no  a  book  he's  lookin'  for,"  she  said,  "  na, 
it's  his  glove." 

The  time  of  day  was  early  for  Leeby  to  gossip, 
but  I  detained  her  for  a  moment. 

"  My  mother's  hodded  (hid)  it,"  she  explained, 
150 


A  TALE  OF  A  GLOVE 

"an  he  winna  speir  nae  queistions.  But  he's 
lookin'  for't.  He  was  ben  in  the  room  searchin' 
the  drawers  when  I  was  up  i'  the  toon  in  the  fore- 
noon. Ye  see  he  pretends  no  to  be  carin'  afore 
me,  an'  though  my  mother's  sittin'  sae  quiet-like 
at  the  window  she's  hearkenin'  a'  the  time.  Ay, 
an'  he  thocht  I  had  hod  it  up  here." 

But  where,  I  asked,  was  the  glove  hid. 

"  I  ken  nae  mair  than  yersel,"  said  Leeby.  "  My 
mother's  gien  to  hoddin'  things.  She  has  a  place 
aneath  the  bed  whaur  she  keeps  the  siller,  an'  she's 
no  speakin'  aboot  the  glove  to  me  noo,  because 
she  thinks  Jamie  an'  me's  in  comp  (company).  I 
speired  at  her  whaur  she  had  hod  it,  but  she  juist 
said,  'What  would  I  be  doin'  hoddin't4?'  She'll 
never  admit  to  me  'at  she  hods  the  siller  either." 

Next  day  Leeby  came  to  me  with  the  latest 
news. 

"  He's  found  it,"  she  said,  "  ay,  he's  got  the  glove 
again.  Ye  see  what  put  him  on  the  wrang  scent 
was  a  notion  'at  I  had  put  it  some  gait.  He  kent 
'at  if  she'd  hod  it,  the  kitchen  maun  be  the  place, 
but  he  thocht  she'd  gi'en  it  to  me  to  hod.  He 
came  upon't  by  accident.  It  was  aneath  the  pad- 
din'  o'  her  chair." 

Here,  I  thought,  was  the  end  of  the  glove  inci- 
dent, but  I  was  mistaken.  There  were  no  presses 
or  drawers  with  locks  in  the  house,  and  Jess  got 
hold  of  the  glove  again.  I  suppose  she  had  rea- 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

soned  out  no  line  of  action.  She  merely  hated  the 
thought  that  Jamie  should  have  a  woman's  glove 
in  his  possession. 

"  She  beats  a'  wi'  'cuteness,"  Leeby  said  to  me. 
"Jamie  didna  put  the  glove  back  in  his  pouch. 
Na,  he  kens  her  ower  weel  by  this  time.  She  was 
up,  though,  lang  afore  he  was  wauken,  an'  she  gaed 
almost  strecht  to  the  place  whaur  he  had  hod  it. 
I  believe  she  lay  waukin  a'  nicht  thinkin'  oot  whaur 
it  would  be.  Ay,  it  was  aneath  the  mattress.  I 
saw  her  hodden't  i'  the  back  o'  the  drawer,  but  I 
didna  let  on." 

I  quite  believed  Leeby  when  she  told  me  after- 
wards that  she  had  watched  Jamie  feeling  beneath 
the  mattress. 

"  He  had  a  face,"  she  said,  "  I  assure  ye,  he  had 
a  face,  when  he  discovered  the  glove  was  gone 
again." 

"  He  maun  be  terrible  ta'en  up  aboot  it,"  Jess 
said  to  Leeby,  "  or  he  wouldna  keep  it  aneath  the 
mattress." 

"  Od,"  said  Leeby,  "  it  was  yersel  'at  drove  him 
to't." 

Again  Jamie  recovered  his  property,  and  again 
Jess  got  hold  of  it.  This  time  he  looked  in  vain. 
I  learnt  the  fate  of  the  glove  from  Leeby. 

"  Ye  mind  'at  she  keepit  him  at  hame  frae  the 
kirk  on  Sabbath,  because  he  had  a  cauld  *? " 
Leeby  said.  "  Ay,  me  or  my  father  would  hae  a 

152 


A   TALE   OF  A  GLOVE 

gey  ill  cauld  afore  she  would  let's  bide  at  hame 
frae  the  kirk;  but  Jamie's  different.  Weel,  mair 
than  ance  she's  been  near  speakin'  to  'im  aboot 
the  glove,  but  she  grew  fleid  aye.  She  was  so  ter- 
rified there  was  something  in't. 

"  On  Sabbath,  though,  she  had  him  to  hersel,  an' 
he  wasna  so  bright  as  usual.  She  sat  wi'  the  Bible 
on  her  lap,  pretendin'  to  read,  but  a'  the  time  she 
was  takkin'  keeks  (glances)  at  him.  I  dinna  ken 
5 at  he  was  broodin'  ower  the  glove,  but  she  thocht 
he  was,  an'  just  afore  the  kirk  came  oot  she 
couldna  stand  it  nae  langer.  She  put  her  hand 
in  her  pouch,  an  pu'd  oot  the  glove,  wi'  the  paper 
round  it,  just  as  it  had  been  when  she  came 
upon't. 

" '  That's  yours,  Jamie,'  she  said ; '  it  was  ill-dune 
o'  me  to  tak  it,  but  I  couldna  help  it.' 

"Jamie  put  oot  his  hand,  an'  syne  he  drew't 
back.  '  It's  no  a  thing  o'  nae  consequence,  mother, 
he  said. 

"  '  Wha  is  she,  Jamie  ?  '  my  mother  said. 

"  He  turned  awa  his  heid  —  so  she  telt  me.  'It's 
a  lassie  in  London,'  he  said,  '  I  dinna  ken  her 
muckle.' 

"  '  Ye  maun  ken  her  weel,'  my  mother  persisted, 
4  to  be  carryin'  aboot  her  glove ;  I'm  dootin'  ye're 
gey  fond  o'  her,  Jamie  ?  * 

" '  Na,'  said  Jamie,  '  am  no.  There's  no  naebody 
I  care  for  like  yersel,  mother/ 

'53 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

" '  Ye  wouldna  carry  aboot  onything  o'  mine, 
Jamie,'  my  mother  said ;  but  he  says, '  Oh,  mother, 
I  carry  aboot  yer  face  wi'  me  aye ;  an'  sometimes 
at  nicht  I  kind  o'  greet  to  think  o'  ye.' 

"  Ay,  after  that  I've  nae  doot  he  was  sittin'  wi' 
his  airms  aboot  her.  She  didna  tell  me  that,  but 
weel  he  kens  it's  what  she  likes,  an'  she  maks  nae 
pretence  o'  its  no  bein'.  But  for  a'  he  said  an'  did, 
she  noticed  him  put  the  glove  back  in  his  inside 
pouch. 

" '  It's  wrang  o'  me,  Jamie,'  she  said,  '  but  I 
canna  bear  to  think  o'  ye  carryin'  that  aboot  sae 
carefu'.  No,  I  canna  help  it.' 

"  Weel,  Jamie,  the  crittur,  took  it  oot  o'  his 
pouch  an'  kind  o'  hesitated.  Syne  he  lays't  on 
the  back  o'  the  fire,  an'  they  sat  thegither  glowerin' 
at  it. 

" '  Noo,  mother,'  he  says,  '  you're  satisfied,  are 
ye  no*?' 

"  Ay,"  Leeby  ended  her  story,  "  she  said  she  was 
satisfied.  But  she  saw  'at  he  laid  it  on  the  fire  fell 
fond-like." 


154 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE  LAST  NIGHT 

"JuisT  another  sax  nichts,  Jamie,"  Jess  would 
say,  sadly.  "  Juist  fower  nichts  noo,  an'  you'll  be 
awa."  Even  as  she  spoke  seemed  to  come  the 
last  night. 

The  last  night !  Reserve  slipped  unheeded  to 
the  floor.  Hendry  wandered  ben  and  but  the 
house,  and  Jamie  sat  at  the  window  holding  his 
mother's  hand.  You  must  walk  softly  now  if  you 
would  cross  that  humble  threshold.  I  stop  at  the 
door.  Then,  as  now,  I  was  a  lonely  man,  and 
when  the  last  night  came  the  attic  was  the  place 
for  me. 

This  family  affection,  how  good  and  beautiful 
it  is.  Men  and  maids  love,  and  after  many  years 
they  may  rise  to  this.  It  is  the  grand  proof  of  the 
goodness  in  human  nature,  for  it  means  that  the 
more  we  see  of  each  other  the  more  we  find  that  is 
lovable.  If  you  would  cease  to  dislike  a  man,  try 
to  get  nearer  his  heart. 

Leeby  had  no  longer  any  excuse  for  bustling 
about.  Everything  was  ready  —  too  soon.  Hen- 
dry  had  been  to  the  fish-cadger  in  the  square  to  get 

155 


A  WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

a  bervie  for  Jamie's  supper,  and  Jamie  had  eaten 
it,  trying  to  look  as  if  it  made  him  happier.  His 
little  box  was  packed  and  strapped,  and  stood 
terribly  conspicuous  against  the  dresser.  Jess  had 
packed  it  herself. 

"  Ye  mauna  trachle  (trouble)  yersel,  mother," 
Jamie  said,  when  she  had  the  empty  box  pulled 
toward  her. 

Leeby  was  wiser. 

"  Let  her  do't,"  she  whispered,  "  it'll  keep  her 
frae  broodinV 

Jess  tied  ends  of  yarn  round  the  stockings  to 
keep  them  in  a  little  bundle  by  themselves.  So 
she  did  with  all  the  other  articles. 

44  No  'at  it's  ony  great  affair,"  she  said,  for  on  the 
last  night  they  were  all  thirsting  to  do  something 
for  Jamie  that  would  be  a  great  affair  to  him. 

"  Ah,  ye  would  wonder,  mother,"  Jamie  said, 
"  when  I  open  my  box  an'  find  a'thing  tied  up  wi' 
strings  sae  careful,  it  a'  comes  back  to  me  wi'  a 
rush  wha  did  it,  an'  am  as  fond  o'  thae  strings  as 
though  they  were  a  grand  present  There's  the 
pocky  (bag)  ye  gae  mi  to  keep  sewin'  things  in.  I 
get  the  wifie  I  lodge  wi'  to  sew  to  me,  but  often 
when  I  come  upon  the  pocky  I  sit  an'  look  at  it." 

Two  chairs  were  backed  to  the  fire,  with  under- 
clothing hanging  upside  down  on  them.  From  the 
string  over  the  fireplace  dangled  two  pairs  of  much- 
darned  stockings. 

.56 


THE   LAST   NIGHT 

"Ye'll  put  on  baith  thae  pair  o'  stockin's, 
Jamie,"  said  Jess,  "  juist  to  please  me  *?  " 

When  he  arrived  he  had  rebelled  against  the 
extra  clothing. 

"  Ay,  will  I,  mother  ?  "  he  said  now. 

Jess  put  her  hand  fondly  through  his  ugly  hair. 
How  handsome  she  thought  him. 

"  Ye  have  a  fine  brow,  Jamie,"  she  said.  "  I 
mind  the  day  ye  was  born  sayin'  to  mysel  'at  ye  had 
a  fine  brow." 

"  But  ye  thocht  he  was  to  be  a  lassie,  mother," 
said  Leeby. 

"Na,  Leeby,  I  didna.  I  kept  sayin'  I  thocht 
he  would  be  a  lassie  because  I  was  fleid  he  would 
be ;  but  a'  the  time  I  had  a  presentiment  he  would 
be  a  laddie.  It  was  wi'  Joey  deein'  sae  sudden,  an' 
I  took  on  sae  terrible  aboot  'im  'at  I  thocht  all 
alang  the  Lord  would  gie  me  another  laddie." 

"Ay,  I  wanted  'im  to  be  a  laddie  mysel,"  said 
Hendry,  "  so  as  he  could  tak  Joey's  place." 

Jess's  head  jerked  back  involuntarily,  and 
Jamie  may  have  felt  her  hand  shake,  for  he  said 
in  a  voice  out  of  Hendry's  hearing  — 

"  I  never  took  Joey's  place  wi'  ye,  mother." 

Jess  pressed  his  hand  tightly  in  her  two  worn 
palms,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Jamie  was  richt  like  Joey  when  he  was  a  bairn," 
Hendry  said. 

Again  Jess's  head  moved,  but  still  she  was  silent. 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

*'  They  were  sae  like,"  continued  Hendry,  "  'at 
often  I  called  Jamie  by  Joey's  name." 

Jess  looked  at  her  husband,  and  her  mouth 
opened  and  shut. 

"  I  canna  mind  'at  you  ever  did  that  *?  "  Hen- 
dry  said. 

She  shook  her  head, 

"  Na,"  said  Hendry,  "  you  never  mixed  them  up. 
I  dinna  think  ye  ever  missed  Joey  sae  sair  as  I  did." 

Leeby  went  ben,  and  stood  in  the  room  in  the 
dark ;  Jamie  knew  why. 

"  I'll  just  gang  ben  an'  speak  to  Leeby  for  a 
meenute,"  he  said  to  his  mother;  "  I'll  no  be  lang." 

"  Ay,  do  that,  Jamie,"  said  Jess.  "  What  Leeby's 
been  to  me  nae  tongue  can  tell.  Ye  canna  bear 
to  hear  me  speak,  I  ken,  o'  the  time  when  Hen- 
dry  an'  me'll  be  awa,  but,  Jamie,  when  that  time 
comes  ye'll  no  forget  Leeby  ?  " 

**  I  winna,  mother,  I  winna,"  said  Jamie. 
"  There'll  never  be  a  roof  ower  me  'at's  no  hers 
too." 

He  went  ben  and  shut  the  door.  I  do  not  know 
what  he  and  Leeby  said.  Many  a  time  since  their 
earliest  youth  had  these  two  been  closeted  together, 
often  to  make  up  their  little  quarrels  in  each  other's 
arms.  They  remained  a  long  time  in  the  room, 
the  shabby  room  of  which  Jess  and  Leeby  were 
so  proud,  and  whatever  might  be  their  fears  about 
their  mother,  they  were  not  anxious  for  themselves. 

158 


THE   LAST   NIGHT 

Leeby  was  feeling  lusty  and  well,  and  she  could 
not  know  that  Jamie  required  to  be  reminded  of 
his  duty  to  the  folk  at  home.  Jamie  would  have 
laughed  at  the  notion.  Yet  that  woman  in  Lon- 
don must  have  been  waiting  for  him  even  then. 
Leeby,  who  was  about  to  die,  and  Jamie,  who 
was  to  forget  his  mother,  came  back  to  the  kitchen 
with  a  happy  light  on  their  faces.  I  have  with 
me  still  the  look  of  love  they  gave  each  other 
before  Jamie  crossed  over  to  Jess. 

"  Ye'll  gang  anower,  noo,  mother,"  Leeby  said, 
meaning  that  it  was  Jess's  bed-time. 

"  No  yet,  Leeby,"  Jess  answered,  "  I'll  sit  up  till 
the  readin's  ower." 

"  I  think  ye  should  gang,  mother,"  Jamie  said, 
"  an'  I'll  come  an'  sit  aside  ye  after  ye're  i'  yer  bed." 

"  Ay,  Jamie,  I'll  no  hae  ye  to  sit  aside  me  the 
morn's  nicht,  an'  hap  (cover)  me  wi'  the  claes." 

"  But  ye'll  gang  suner  to  yer  bed,  mother." 

"  I  may  gang,  but  I  winna  sleep.  I'll  aye  be 
thinkin'  o'  ye  tossin'  on  the  sea.  I  pray  for  ye  a 
lang  time  ilka  nicht,  Jamie." 

"  Ay,  I  ken." 

"  An'  I  pictur  ye  ilka  hour  o'  the  day.  Ye  never 
gang  hame  through  thae  terrible  streets  at  nicht 
but  I'm  thinkin'  o'  ye." 

"  I  would  try  no  to  be  sae  sad,  mother,"  said 
Leeby.  "  We've  ha'en  a  richt  fine  time,  have  we 
no4?" 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS 

"  It's  been  an  awfu'  happy  time,"  said  Jess. 
"  We've  ha'en  a  pleasantness  in  oor  lives  'at  comes 
to  few.  I  ken  naebody  'at's  ha'en  sae  muckle 
happiness  one  wy  or  another." 

"  It's  because  ye're  sae  guid,  mother,"  said 
Jamie. 

"  Na,  Jamie,  am  no  guid  ava.  It's  because  my 
fowk's  been  sae  guid,  you  an'  Hendry  an'  Leeby  an' 
Joey  when  he  was  livin'.  I've  got  a  lot  mair  than 
my  deserts." 

"  We'll  juist  look  to  meetin'  next  year  again, 
mother.  To  think  o'  that  keeps  me  up  a'  the 
winter." 

"  Ay,  if  it's  the  Lord's  will,  Jamie,  but  am  gey 
dune  noo,  an'  Hendry's  fell  worn  too." 

Jamie,  the  boy  that  he  was,  said,  "  Dinna  speak 
like  that,  mother,"  and  Jess  again  put  her  hand  on 
his  head. 

"  Fine  I  ken,  Jamie,"  she  said,  "  'at  all  my  days 
on  this  earth,  be  they  short  or  lang,  I've  you  for  a 
staff  to  lean  on." 

Ah,  many  years  have  gone  since  then,  but  if 
Jamie  be  living  now  he  has  still  those  words  to 
swallow. 

By  and  by  Leeby  went  ben  for  the  Bible,  and 
put  it  into  Hendry's  hands.  He  slowly  turned 
over  the  leaves  to  his  favourite  chapter,  the  four- 
teenth of  John's  Gospel.  Always,  on  eventful  occa- 
sions, did  Hendry  turn  to  the  fourteenth  of  John. 

160 


THE  LAST   NIGHT 

"  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled ;  ye  believe  in 
God,  believe  also  in  Me. 

"  In  My  Father's  house  are  many  mansions ;  if 
it  were  not  so  I  would  have  told  you.  I  go  to 
prepare  a  place  for  you." 

As  Hendry  raised  his  voice  to  read  there  was  a 
great  stillness  in  the  kitchen.  I  do  not  know  that 
I  have  been  able  to  show  in  the  most  imperfect 
way  what  kind  of  man  Hendry  was.  He  was 
dense  in  many  things,  and  the  cleverness  that  was 
Jess's  had  been  denied  to  him.  He  had  less  book- 
learning  than  most  of  those  with  whom  he  passed 
his  days,  and  he  had  little  skill  in  talk.  I  have 
not  known  a  man  more  easily  taken  in  by  persons 
whose  speech  had  two  faces.  But  a  more  simple, 
modest,  upright  man,  there  never  was  in  Thrums, 
and  I  shall  always  revere  his  memory. 

"  And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place  for  you,  I  will 
come  again,  and  receive  you  unto  Myself;  that 
where  I  am,  there  ye  may  be  also." 

The  voice  may  have  been  monotonous.  I  have 
always  thought  that  Hendry's  reading  of  the  Bible 
was  the  most  solemn  and  impressive  I  have  ever 
heard.  He  exulted  in  the  fourteenth  of  John, 
pouring  it  forth  like  one  whom  it  intoxicated  while 
he  read.  He  emphasized  every  other  word;  it 
was  so  real  and  grand  to  him. 

We  went  upon  our  knees  while  Hendry  prayed, 
all  but  Jess,  who  could  not.  Jamie  buried  his  face 

161 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS 

in  her  lap.  The  words  Hendry  said  were  those 
he  used  every  night.  Some,  perhaps,  would  have 
smiled  at  his  prayer  to  God  that  we  be  not  puffed 
up  with  riches  nor  with  the  things  of  this  world. 
His  head  shook  with  emotion  while  he  prayed,  and 
he  brought  us  very  near  to  the  throne  of  grace. 
"Do  thou,  O  our  God,"  he  said,  in  conclusion, 
"  spread  Thy  guiding  hand  over  him  whom  in  Thy 
great  mercy  Thou  hast  brought  to  us  again,  and 
do  Thou  guard  him  through  the  perils  which  come 
unto  those  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships.  Let 
not  our  hearts  be  troubled,  neither  let  them  be 
afraid,  for  this  is  not  our  abiding  home,  and  may 
we  all  meet  in  Thy  house,  where  there  are  many 
mansions,  and  where  there  will  be  no  last  night. 
Amen." 

It  was  a  silent  kitchen  after  that,  though  the 
lamp  burned  long  in  Jess's  window.  By  its  meagre 
light  you  may  take  a  final  glance  at  the  little 
family ;  you  will  never  see  them  together  again. 


162 


CHAPTER  XXI 

JESS  LEFT  ALONE 

THERE  may  be  a  few  who  care  to  know  how  the 
lives  of  Jess  and  Hendry  ended.  Leeby  died  in 
the  back-end  of  the  year  I  have  been  speaking  of, 
and  as  I  was  snowed  up  in  the  school-house  at  the 
time,  I  heard  the  news  from  Gavin  Birse  too  late 
to  attend  her  funeral.  She  got  her  death  on  the 
commonty  one  day  of  sudden  rain,  when  she  had 
run  out  to  bring  in  her  washing,  for  the  terrible 
cold  she  woke  with  next  morning  carried  her  off 
very  quickly.  Leeby  did  not  blame  Jamie  for 
not  coming  to  her,  nor  did  I,  for  I  knew  that 
even  in  the  presence  of  death  the  poor  must  drag 
their  chains.  He  never  got  Hendry's  letter  with 
the  news,  and  we  know  now  that  he  was  already 
in  the  hands  of  her  who  played  the  devil  with  his 
life.  Before  the  spring  came  he  had  been  lost  to 
Jess. 

"  Them  'at  has  got  sae  mony  blessin's  mair  than 
the  generality,"  Hendry  said  to  me  one  day,  when 
Craigiebuckle  had  given  me  a  lift  into  Thrums, 
"  has  nae  shame  if  they  would  pray  aye  for  mair. 

163 


A   WINDOW    IN    THRUMS 

The  Lord  has  gi'en  this  hoose  sae  muckle,  'at  to 
pray  for  mair  looks  like  no  bein'  thankfu'  for  what 
we've  got.  Ay,  but  I  canna  help  prayin'  to  Him 
'at  in  His  great  mercy  he'll  take  Jess  afore  me. 
Noo  'at  Leeby's  gone,  an'  Jamie  never  lets  us  hear 
frae  him,  I  canna  gulp  doon  the  thocht  o'  Jess 
bein'  left  alane." 

This  was  a  prayer  that  Hendry  may  be  par- 
doned for  having  so  often  in  his  heart,  though  God 
did  not  think  fit  to  grant  it.  In  Thrums,  when  a 
weaver  died,  his  womenfolk  had  to  take  his  seat 
at  the  loom,  and  those  who,  by  reason  of  infirmi- 
ties, could  not  do  so,  went  to  a  place  the  name  of 
which,  I  thank  God,  I  am  not  compelled  to  write 
in  this  chapter.  I  could  not,  even  at  this  day, 
have  told  any  episodes  in  the  life  of  Jess  had  it 
ended  in  the  poorhouse. 

Hendry  would  probably  have  recovered  from 
the  fever  had  not  this  terrible  dread  darkened  his 
intellect  when  he  was  still  prostrate.  He  was 
lying  in  the  kitchen  when  I  saw  him  last  in  life, 
and  his  parting  words  must  be  sadder  to  the  reader 
than  they  were  to  me. 

"  Ay,  richt  ye  are,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  had 
become  a  child's  ;  "  I  hae  muckle,  muckle,  to  be 
thankfu'  for,  an'  no  the  least  is  'at  baith  me  an'  Jess 
has  aye  belonged  to  a  bural  society.  We  hae  nac 
cause  to  be  anxious  aboot  a'  thing  bein'  dune  re- 
respectable  aince  we're  gone.  It  was  Jess  'at  in- 

164. 


JESS  LEFT  ALONE 

sisted  on  oor  joinin' :  a*  the  wisest  things  I  ever 
did  I  was  put  up  to  by  her." 

I  parted  from  Hendry,  cheered  by  the  doctor's 
report,  but  the  old  weaver  died  a  few  days  after- 
wards. His  end  was  mournful,  yet  I  can  recall  it 
now  as  the  not  unworthy  close  of  a  good  man's 
life.  One  night  poor  worn  Jess  had  been  helped 
ben  into  the  room,  Tibbie  Birse  having  undertaken 
to  sit  up  with  Hendry.  Jess  slept  for  the  first  time 
for  many  days,  and  as  the  night  was  dying  Tibbie 
fell  asleep  too.  Hendry  had  been  better  than 
usual,  lying  quietly,  Tibbie  said,  and  the  fever  was 
gone.  About  three  o'clock  Tibbie  woke  and  rose 
to  mend  the  fire.  Then  she  saw  that  Hendry 
was  not  in  his  bed. 

Tibbie  went  ben  the  house  in  her  stocking-soles, 
but  Jess  heard  her. 

"  What  is't,  Tibbie  ?  "  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Ou,  it's  no  naething,"  Tibbie  said,  "  he's  lyin' 
rale  quiet." 

Then  she  went  up  to  the  attic.  Hendry  was 
not  in  the  house. 

She  opened  the  door  gently  and  stole  out.  It 
was  not  snowing,  but  there  had  been  a  heavy  fall 
two  days  before,  and  the  night  was  windy.  A 
tearing  gale  had  blown  the  upper  part  of  the  brae 
clear,  and  from  T'nowhead's  fields  the  snow  was 
rising  like  smoke.  Tibbie  ran  to  the  farm  and 
woke  up  T'nowhead. 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

For  an  hour  they  looked  in  vain  for  Hendry.  At 
last  some  one  asked  who  was  working  in  Elshion- 
er's  shop  all  night.  This  was  the  long  earthen- 
floored  room  in  which  Hendry's  loom  stood  with 
three  others. 

*'  It'll  be  Sanders  Whamond  likely,"  T'nowhead 
said,  and  the  other  men  nodded. 

But  it  happened  that  T'nowhead's  Bell,  who  had 
flung  on  a  wrapper,  and  hastened  across  to  sit  with 
Jess,  heard  of  the  light  in  Elshioner's  shop. 

"  It's  Hendry,"  she  cried,  and  then  every  one 
moved  toward  the  workshop. 

The  light  at  the  diminutive,  yarn-covered  win- 
dow was  pale  and  dim,  but  Bell,  who  was  at  the 
house  first,  could  make  the  most  of  a  cruizey's 
glimmer. 

"  It's  him,"  she  said,  and  then,  with  swelling 
throat,  she  ran  back  to  Jess. 

The  door  of  the  workshop  was  wide  open,  held 
against  the  wall  by  the  wind.  T'nowhead  and  the 
others  went  in.  The  cruizey  stood  on  the  little 
window.  Hendry's  back  was  to  the  door,  and  he 
was  leaning  forward  on  the  silent  loom.  He  had 
been  dead  for  some  time,  but  his  fellow-workers 
saw  that  he  must  have  weaved  for  nearly  an  hour. 

So  it  came  about  that  for  the  last  few  months  of 
her  pilgrimage  Jess  was  left  alone.  Yet  I  may 
not  say  that  she  was  alone.  Jamie,  who  should 
have  been  with  her,  was  undergoing  his  own 

166 


JESS   LEFT  ALONE 

ordeal  far  away;  where,  we  aid  not  now  even 
know.  But  though  the  poorhouse  stands  in  Thrums, 
where  all  may  see  it,  the  neighbours  did  not  think 
only  of  themselves. 

Than  Thomas  Haggart  there  can  scarcely  have 
been  a  poorer  man,  but  Tammas  was  the  first  to 
come  forward  with  offer  of  help.  To  the  day  of 
Jess's  death  he  did  not  once  fail  to  carry  her  water 
to  her  in  the  morning,  and  the  luxuriously  living 
men  of  Thrums  in  those  present  days  of  pumps 
at  every  corner,  can  hardly  realize  what  that 
meant.  Often  there  were  lines  of  people  at  the 
well  by  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  each 
had  to  wait  his  turn.  Tammas  filled  his  own 
pitcher  and  pan,  and  then  had  to  take  his  place  at 
the  end  of  the  line  with  Jess's  pitcher  and  pan,  to 
wait  his  turn  again.  His  own  house  was  in  the 
Tenements,  far  from  the  brae  in  winter  time,  but 
he  always  said  to  Jess  it  was  "  naething  ava." 

Every  Saturday  old  Robbie  Angus  sent  a  bag 
of  sticks  and  shavings  from  the  saw-mill  by  his 
little  son  Rob,  who  was  afterwards  to  become  a 
man  for  speaking  about  at  nights.  Of  all  the 
friends  that  Jess  and  Hendry  had,  T'nowhead  was 
the  ablest  to  help,  and  the  sweetest  memory  I 
have  of  the  farmer  and  his  wife  is  the  delicate 
way  they  offered  it.  You  who  read  will  see  Jess 
wince  at  the  offer  of  charity.  But  the  poor  have 
fine  feelings  beneath  the  grime,  as  you  will  discover 

167 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

if  you  care  to  look  for  them,  and  when  Jess  said 
she  would  bake  if  any  one  would  buy,  you  would 
wonder  to  hear  how  many  kindly  folk  came  to  her 
door  for  scones. 

She  had  the  house  to  herself  at  nights,  but  Tibbie 
Birse  was  with  her  early  in  the  morning,  and  other 
neighbours  dropped  in.  Not  for  long  did  she  have 
to  wait  the  summons  to  the  better  home. 

"  Na,"  she  said  to  the  minister,  who  has  told 
me  that  he  was  a  better  man  from  knowing  her, 
"  my  thochts  is  no  nane  set  on  the  vanities  o*  the 
world  noo.  I  kenn.a  hoo  I  could  ever  hae  ha'en  sic 
an  ambeetion  to  hae  thae  stuff-bottomed  chairs." 

I  have  tried  to  keep  away  from  Jamie,  whom 
the  neighbours  sometimes  upbraided  in  her  pres- 
ence. It  is  of  him  you  who  read  would  like  to 
hear,  and  I  cannot  pretend  that  Jess  did  not  sit  at 
her  window  looking  for  him. 

"  Even  when  she  was  bakin',"  Tibbie  told  me, 
"  she  aye  had  an  eye  on  the  brae.  If  Jamie  had 
come  at  ony  time  when  it  was  licht  she  would  hae 
seen  'im  as  sune  as  he  turned  the  corner." 

44  If  he  ever  comes  back,  the  sacket  (rascal)," 
T'nowhead  said  to  Jess,  "  we'll  show  'im  the  door 
gey  quick." 

Jess  just  looked,  and  all  the  women  knew  how 
she  would  take  Jamie  to  her  arms. 

We  did  not  know  of  the  London  woman  then, 
and  Jess  never  knew  of  her.  Jamie's  mother 

168 


JESS  LEFT  ALONE 

never  for  an  hour  allowed  that  he  had  become  any- 
thing but  the  loving  laddie  of  his  youth. 

"  I  ken  'im  ower  weel,"  she  always  said,  "  my 
ain  Jamie." 

Toward  the  end  she  was  sure  he  was  dead.  I 
do  not  know  when  she  first  made  up  her  mind 
to  this,  nor  whether  it  was  not  merely  a  phrase  for 
those  who  wanted  to  discuss  him  with  her.  I 
know  that  she  still  sat  at  the  window  looking  at 
the  elbow  of  the  brae. 

The  minister  was  with  her  when  she  died.  She 
was  in  her  chair,  and  he  asked  her,  as  was  his  cus- 
tom, if  there  was  any  particular  chapter  which  she 
would  like  him  to  read.  Since  her  husband's 
death  she  had  always  asked  for  the  fourteenth  of 
John,  "  Hendry's  chapter,"  as  it  is  still  called  among 
a  very  few  old  people  in  Thrums.  This  time 
she  asked  him  to  read  the  sixteenth  chapter  of 
Genesis. 

"When  I  came  to  the  thirteenth  verse,"  the 
minister  told  me,  " '  And  she  called  the  name  of 
the  Lord  that  spake  unto  her,  Thou  God  seest  me,' 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  two  hands,  and  said, 
'  Joey's  text,  Joey's  text.  Oh,  but  I  grudged  ye 
sair,  Joey.' " 

"  I  shut  the  book,"  the  minister  said,  "  when  I 
came  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  and  then  I  saw 
that  she  was  dead.  It  is  my  belief  that  her  heart 
broke  one-and-twenty  years  ago." 

169 


CHAPTER  XXII 

JAMIE'S   HOME-COMING 

ON  a  summer  day,  when  the  sun  was  in  the 
weavers'  workshops,  and  bairns  hopped  solemnly 
at  the  game  of  palaulays,  or  gaily  shook  their 
bottles  of  sugarelly  water  into  a  froth,  Jamie  came 
back.  The  first  man  to  see  him  was  Hookey 
Crewe,  the  post. 

"  When  he  came  frae  London,"  Hookey  said 
afterwards  at  T'nowhead's  pig-sty,  "  Jamie  used  to 
wait  for  me  at  Zoar,  i'  the  north  end  o'  Tilliedrum. 
He  carried  his  box  ower  the  market  muir,  an'  sat 
on't  at  Zoar,  waitin'  for  me  to  catch  'im  up.  Ay, 
the  day  afore  yesterday  me  an'  the  powny  was 
clatterin'  by  Zoar,  when  there  was  Jamie  standin* 
in  his  identical  place.  He  hadna  nae  box  to  sit 
upon,  an*  he  was  far  frae  bein*  weel  in  order,  but 
I  kent  'im  at  aince,  an'  I  saw  'at  he  was  waitin'  for 
me.  So  I  drew  up,  an'  waved  my  hand  to  'im." 

46 1  would  hae  drove  straucht  by  'im,"  said 
T'nowhead ;  "  them  'at  leaves  their  auld  mother  to 
want  doesna  deserve  a  lift." 

"  Ay,  ye  say  that  sittin'  there,"  Hookey  said ; 
170 


JAMIE'S   HOME-COMING 

"but,  lads,  I  saw  his  face,  an'  as  sure  as  death  it 
was  sic  an'  awfu'  meeserable  face  'at  I  couldna  but 
pu'  the  powny  up.  Weel,  he  stood  for  the  space 
o'  a  meenute  lookin'  straucht  at  me,  as  if  he  would 
like  to  come  forrit  but  dauredna,  an'  syne  he 
turned  an'  strided  awa  ower  the  muir  like  a  huntit 
thing.  I  sat  still  i'  the  cart,  an'  when  he  was  far 
awa  he  stoppit  an'  lookit  again,  but  a'  my  cryin' 
wouldna  bring  him  a  step  back,  an'  i'  the  end  I 
drove  on.  I've  thocht  since  syne  'at  he  didna  ken 
whether  his  fowk  was  livin'  or  deid,  an'  was  fleid 
to  speir." 

"  He  didna  ken,"  said  T'nowhead, "  but  the  faut 
was  hrs  ain.  It's  ower  late  to  be  ta'en  up  aboot 
Jess  noo." 

"  Ay,  ay,  T'nowhead,"  said  Hookey,  "  it's  aisy 
to  you  to  speak  like  that.  Ye  didna  see  his  face." 

It  is  believed  that  Jamie  walked  from  Tillie- 
drum,  though  no  one  is  known  to  have  met  him 
on  the  road.  Some  two  hours  after  the  post  left 
him  he  was  seen  by  old  Rob  Angus  at  the  saw- 
mill. 

"  I  was  sawin'  awa  wi'  a'  my  micht,"  Rob  said, 
"  an'  little  Rob  was  haudin'  the  booards,  for  they 
were  silly  but  things,  when  something  made  me 
look  at  the  window.  It  couldna  hae  been  a  tap 
on't,  for  the  birds  has  used  me  to  that,  an'  it  would 
hardly  be  a  shadow,  for  little  Rob  didna  look  up. 
Whatever  it  was,  I  stoppit  i'  the  middle  o*  a 

171 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

booard,  an'  lookit  up,  an'  there  I  saw  Jamie  Mc- 
Qumpha.  He  joukit  back  when  our  een  met,  but 
I  saw  him  weel ;  ay,  it's  a  queer  thing  to  say,  but 
he  had  the  face  o'  a  man  'at  had  come  straucht 
frae  hell." 

"  I  stood  starin'  at  the  window,"  Angus  contin- 
ued, "  after  he'd  gone,  an'  Robbie  cried  oot  to  ken 
what  was  the  maiter  wi'  me.  Ay,  that  brocht  me 
back  to  mysel,  an'  I  hurried  oot  to  look  for  Jamie, 
but  he  wasna  to  be  seen.  That  face  gae  me  a 
turn." 

From  the  saw-mill  to  the  house  at  the  top  of 
the  brae,  some  may  remember,  the  road  is  up  the 
commonty.  I  do  not  think  any  one  saw  Jamie  on 
the  commonty,  though  there  were  those  to  say  they 
met  him. 

"  He  gae  me  sic  a  look,"  a  woman  said,  "  'at 
I  was  fleid  an'  ran  name,"  but  she  did  not  tell  the 
story  until  Jamie's  home-coming  had  become  a 
legend. 

There  were  many  women  hanging  out  their 
washing  on  the  commonty  that  day,  and  none  of 
them  saw  him.  I  think  Jamie  must  have  ap- 
proached his  old  home  by  the  fields,  and  probably 
he  held  back  until  gloaming. 

The  young  woman  who  was  now  mistress  of  the 
house  at  the  top  of  the  brae  both  saw  and  spoke 
with  Jamie. 

"  Twa  or  three  times,"  she  said,  "  I  had  seen  a 
172 


JAMIE'S  HOME-COMING 

man  walk  quick  up  the  brae  an'  by  the  door.  It 
was  gettin'  dark,  but  I  noticed  'at  he  was  short  an' 
thin,  an'  I  would  hae  said  he  wasna  nane  weel  if 
it  hadna  been  at'  he  gaed  by  at  sic  a  steek.  He 
didna  look  our  wy  —  at  least  no  when  he  was 
close  up,  an'  I  set  'im  doon  for  some  ga'en  aboot 
body.  Na,  I  saw  naething  aboot  'im  to  be  fleid  at. 

"  The  aucht  o'clock  bell  was  ringin'  when  I  saw 
'im  to  speak  to.  My  twa-year-auld  bairn  was 
standin'  aboot  the  door,  an'  I  was  makkin'  some 
porridge  for  my  man's  supper  when  I  heard  the 
bairny  skirlin'.  She  came  runnin'  in  to  the  hoose 
an'  hung  i'  my  wrapper,  an'  she  was  hingin'  there, 
when  I  gaed  to  the  door  to  see  what  was  wrang. 

"  It  was  the  man  I'd  seen  passin'  the  hoose.  He 
was  standin'  at  the  gate,  which,  as  a'body  kens,  is 
but  sax  steps  frae  the  hoose,  an'  I  wondered  at  'im 
neither  runnin'  awa  nor  comin'  forrit.  I  speired  at 
'im  what  he  meant  by  terriryin'  a  bairn,  but  he 
didna  say  naething.  He  juist  stood.  It  was  ower 
dark  to  see  his  face  richt,  an'  I  wasna  nane  ta'en 
aback  yet,  no  till  he  spoke.  Oh,  but  he  had  a 
fearsome  word  when  he  did  speak.  It  was  a  kind 
o'  like  a  man  hoarse  wi'  a  cauld,  an*  yet  no  that 
either. 

"  '  Wha  bides  i'  this  hoose  ? '  he  said,  ay  standin 
there. 

" '  It's  Davit  Patullo's  hoose/  I  said, '  an*  am  the 
wife.* 

173 


A  WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

"  '  Whaur's  Hendry  McQumpha  *? '  he  speired. 

"  «  He's  deid,'  I  said. 

**  He  stood  still  for  a  fell  while. 

"  '  An'  his  wife,  Jess  ? '  he  said. 

"  '  She's  deid,  too,'  I  said. 

"  I  thocht  he  gae  a  groan,  but  it  may  hae  been 
the  gate. 

"  '  There  was  a  dochter,  Leeby  ?  '  he  said. 

"  *  Ay,'  I  said,  '  she  was  ta'en  first.' 

"  I  saw  'im  put  up  his  hands  to  his  face,  an'  he 
cried  out,  k  Leeby  too ! '  an'  syne  he  kind  o'  fell 
agin  the  dyke.  I  never  kent  'im  nor  nane  o'  his 
fowk,  but  I  had  heard  aboot  them,  an'  I  saw  'at  it 
would  be  the  son  frae  London.  It  wasna  for  me 
to  judge  'im,  an'  I  said  to  'im  would  he  no  come 
in  by  an'  tak  a  rest.  I  was  nearer  'im  by  that  time, 
an'  it's  an  awfu'  haver  to  say  'at  he  had  a  face  to 
frichten  fowk.  It  was  a  rale  guid  face,  but  no  ava 
what  a  body  would  like  to  see  on  a  young  man.  I 
felt  mair  like  greetin*  mysel  when  I  saw  his  face 
than  drawin'  awa  frae  'im. 

"  But  he  wouldna  come  in.  4  Rest,'  he  said, 
like  ane  speakin'  to  'imsel,  '  na,  there's  nae  mair 
rest  for  me.'  I  didna  weel  ken  what  mair  to  say 
to  'im,  for  he  aye  stood  on,  an'  I  wasna  even  sure 
'at  he  saw  me.  He  raised  his  heid  when  he  heard 
me  tellin'  the  bairn  no  to  tear  my  wrapper. 

" c  Dinna  set  yer  heart  ower  muckle  on  that 
bairn,'  he  cried  oot,  sharp  like.  '  I  was  aince  like 

J74 


JAMIE'S   HOME-COMING 

her,  an'  I  used  to  hing  aboot  my  mother,  too,  in 
that  very  roady.  Ay,  I  thocht  I  was  fond  o'  her, 
an*  she  thocht  it  too.  Tak'  a  care,  wuman,  'at  that 
bairn  doesna  grow  up  to  murder  ye.' 

"  He  gae  a  lauch  when  he  saw  me  tak  haud  o' 
the  bairn,  an'  syne  a'  at  aince  he  gaed  awa  quick. 
But  he  wasna  far  doon  the  brae  when  he  turned 
an*  came  back. 

"  4  Ye'll,  mebbe,  tell  me,"  he  said,  richt  low,  *  if 
ye  hae  the  furniture  'at  used  to  be  my  mother's  ?  ' 

"  *  Na,'  I  said,  *  it  was  roupit,  an'  I  kenna  whaur 
the  things  gaed,  for  me  an*  my  man  comes  frae 
Tilliedrum.' 

" '  Ye  wouldna  hae  heard,'  he  said,  *  wha  got 
the  muckle  airm-chair  'at  used  to  sit  i'  the  kitchen 
i'  the  window  'at  looks  ower  the  brae  ? ' 

" '  I  couldna  be  sure,'  I  said,  '  but  there  was  an 
airm-chair  at  gaed  to  Tibbie  Birse.  If  it  was  the 
ane  ye  mean,  it  a'  gaed  to  bits,  an'  I  think  they 
burned  it.  It  was  gey  dune.' 

" '  Ay,'  he  said, c  it  was  gey  dune.' 

"  '  There  was  the  chairs  ben  i'  the  room,'  he  said, 
after  a  while. 

"  I  said  I  thocht  Sanders  Elshioner  had  got  them 
at  a  bargain  because  twa  o'  them  was  mended  wi' 
glue,  an'  gey  silly. 

"  '  Ay,  that's  them,'  he  said, '  they  were  richt  neat 
mended.  It  was  my  mother  'at  glued  them.  I 
mind  o'  her  makkin'  the  glue,  an'  warnin'  me  an! 

175 


A   WINDOW    IN   THRUMS 

my  father  no  to  sit  on  them.  There  was  the  clock 
too,  an'  the  stool  'at  my  mother  got  oot  an'  into 
her  bed  wi',  an'  the  basket  'at  Leeby  carried  when 
she  gaed  the  errands.  The  straw  was  aff  the 
handle,  an'  my  father  mended  it  wi'  strings/ 

" '  I  dinna  ken,'  I  said,  '  whaur  nane  o'  thae 
gaed ;  but  did  yer  mother  hae  a  staff1? ' 

"  *  A  little  staff,'  he  said ;  '  it  was  near  black  wi' 
age.  She  couldna  gang  frae  the  bed  to  her  chair 
withoot  it.  It  was  broadened  oot  at  the  foot  wi' 
her  leanin'  on't  sae  muckle.' 

" '  I've  heard  tell,'  I  said,  '  'at  the  dominie  up  i' 
Glen  Quharity  took  awa  the  staff.' 

"  He  didna  speir  for  nae  other  thing.  He  had 
the  gate  in  his  hand,  but  I  dinna  think  he  kent  'at 
he  was  swingin't  back  an'  forrit.  At  last  he  let  it 

g°- 

"  *  That's  a','  he  said, '  I  maun  awa.     Good-nicht, 

an'  thank  ye  kindly.' 

"  I  watched  'im  till  he  gaed  oot  o'  sicht.  He 
gaed  doon  the  brae." 

We  learnt  afterwards  from  the  gravedigger  that 
some  one  spent  great  part  of  that  night  in  the 
graveyard,  and  we  believe  it  to  have  been  Jamie. 
He  walked  up  the  glen  to  the  school-house  next 
forenoon,  and  I  went  out  to  meet  him  when  I  saw 
him  coming  down  the  path. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  "  it's  me  come  back." 

I  wanted  to  take  him  into  the  house  and  speak 
176 


JAMIES   HOME-COMING 

with  him  of  his  mother,  but  he  would  not  cross  the 
threshold. 

"  I  came  oot,"  he  said,  "  to  see  if  ye  would  gie 
me  her  staff —  no  'at  I  deserve  *t." 

I  brought  out  the  staff  and  handed  it  to  him, 
thinking  that  he  and  I  would  soon  meet  again. 
As  he  took  it  I  saw  that  his  eyes  were  sunk  back 
into  his  head.  Two  great  tears  hung  on  his  eye- 
lids, and  his  mouth  closed  in  agony.  He  stared 
at  me  till  the  tears  fell  upon  his  cheeks,  and  then 
he  went  away. 

That  evening  he  was  seen  by  many  persons 
crossing  the  square.  He  went  up  the  brae  to  his 
old  home,  and  asked  leave  to  go  through  the  house 
for  the  last  time.  First  he  climbed  up  into  the 
attic,  and  stood  looking  in,  his  feet  still  on  the 
stair.  Then  he  came  down  and  stood  at  the  door 
of  the  room,  but  he  went  into  the  kitchen. 

"  I'll  ask  one  last  favour  o'  ye,  "  he  said  to  the 
woman :  "  I  would  like  ye  to  leave  me  here  alane 
for  juist  a  little  while." 

"  I  gaed  oot,"  the  woman  said,  "  meanin'  to 
leave  'im  to  'imsel',  but  my  bairn  wouldna  come, 
an'  he  said,  'Never  mind  her,'  so  I  left  her  wi' 
'im,  an'  closed  the  door.  He  was  in  a  lang  time, 
but  I  never  kent  what  he  did,  for  the  bairn  juist 
aye  greets  when  I  speir  at  her. 

"  I  watched  'im  frae  the  corner  window  gang 
doon  the  brae  till  he  came  to  the  corner.  I  thocht 

177 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 

he  turned  round  there  an'  stood  lookin'  at  the 
hoose.  He  would  see  me  better  than  I  saw  him 
for  my  lamp  was  i'  the  window,  whaur  I've  heard 
tell  his  mother  keepit  her  cruizey.  When  my 
man  came  in  I  speired  at  'im  if  he'd  seen  ony- 
body  standin'  at  the  corner  o*  the  brae,  an*  he 
said  he  thocht  he'd  seen  somebody  wi'  a  little 
staff  in  his  hand.  Davit  gaed  doon  to  see  if  he 
was  aye  there  after  supper-time,  but  he  was  gone.'* 
Jamie  was  never  again  seen  in  Thrums. 


178 


AULD  LIGHT  IDYLLS 


TO 

FREDERICK  GREENWOOD 


AULD    LIGHT    IDYLLS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   SCHOOLHOUSE 

this  morning  I  opened  a  window  in 
my  schoolhouse  in  the  glen  of  Quharity, 
awakened  by  the  shivering  of  a  starving  sparrow 
against  the  frosted  glass.  As  the  snowy  sash 
creaked  in  my  hand,  he  made  off  to  the  water- 
spout that  suspends  its  "  tangles "  of  ice  over  a 
gaping  tank,  and,  rebounding  from  that,  with  a 
quiver  of  his  little  black  breast,  bobbed  through 
the  network  of  wire  and  joined  a  few  of  his  fel- 
lows in  a  forlorn  hop  round  the  henhouse  in 
search  of  food.  Two  days  ago  my  hilarious  ban- 
tam-cock, saucy  to  the  last,  my  cheeriest  compan- 
ion, was  found  frozen  in  his  own  water-trough, 
the  corn-saucer  in  three  pieces  by  his  side.  Since 
then  I  have  taken  the  hens  into  the  house.  At 
meal-times  they  litter  the  hearth  with  each  other's 
feathers;  but  for  the  most  part  they  give  little 

181 


AULD  LIGHT   IDYLLS 

trouble,  roosting  on  the  rafters  of  the  low-roofed 
kitchen  among  staves  and  fishing-rods. 

Another  white  blanket  has  been  spread  upon 
the  glen  since  I  looked  out  last  night;  for  over 
the  same  wilderness  of  snow  that  has  met  my  gaze 
for  a  week,  I  see  the  steading  of  Waster  Lunny 
sunk  deeper  into  the  waste.  The  schoolhouse,  I 
suppose,  serves  similarly  as  a  snowmark  for  the 
people  at  the  farm.  Unless  that  is  Waster 
Lunny's  grieve  foddering  the  cattle  in  the  snow, 
not  a  living  thing  is  visible.  The  ghostlike  hills 
that  pen  in  the  glen  have  ceased  to  echo  to  the 
sharp  crack  of  the  sportsman's  gun  (so  clear  in  the 
frosty  air  as  to  be  a  warning  to  every  rabbit  and 
partridge  in  the  valley);  and  only  giant  Catlaw 
shows  here  and  there  a  black  ridge,  rearing  its 
head  at  the  entrance  to  the  glen  and  struggling 
ineffectually  to  cast  off  his  shroud.  Most  wintry 
sign  of  all,  I  think  as  I  close  the  window  hastily, 
is  the  open  farm-stile,  its  poles  lying  embedded  in 
the  snow  where  they  were  last  flung  by  Waster 
Lunny's  herd.  Through  the  still  air  comes 
from  a  distance  a  vibration  as  of  a  tuning-fork : 
a  robin,  perhaps,  alighting  on  the  wire  of  a  broken 
fence. 

In  the  warm  kitchen,  where  I  dawdle  over  my 
breakfast,  the  widowed  bantam-hen  has  perched 
on  the  back  of  my  drowsy  cat.  It  is  needless  to 
go  through  the  form  of  opening  the  school  to-day ; 

182 


THE   SCHOOLHOUSE 

for,  with  the  exception  of  Waster  Lunny's  girl, 
I  have  had  no  scholars  for  nine  days.  Yesterday 
she  announced  that  there  would  be  no  more 
schooling  till  it  was  fresh,  "  as  she  wasna  comin' ; " 
and  indeed,  though  the  smoke  from  the  farm 
chimneys  is  a  pretty  prospect  for  a  snowed-up 
schoolmaster,  the  trudge  between  the  two  houses 
must  be  weary  work  for  a  bairn.  As  for  the  other 
children,  who  have  to  come  from  all  parts  of  the 
hills  and  glen,  I  may  not  see  them  for  weeks.  Last 
year  the  school  was  practically  deserted  for  a 
month.  A  pleasant  outlook,  with  the  March  ex- 
aminations staring  me  in  the  face,  and  an  inspec- 
tor fresh  from  Oxford.  I  wonder  what  he  would 
say  if  he  saw  me  to-day  digging  myself  out  of  the 
schoolhouse  with  the  spade  I  now  keep  for  the 
purpose  in  my  bedroom. 

The  kail  grows  brittle  from  the  snow  in  my 
dank  and  cheerless  garden.  A  crust  of  bread 
gathers  timid  pheasants  round  me.  The  robins,  I 
see,  have  made  the  coalhouse  their  home.  Waster 
Lunny's  dog  never  barks  without  rousing  my 
sluggish  cat  to  a  joyful  response.  It  is  Dutch 
courage  with  the  birds  and  beasts  of  the  glen, 
hard  driven  for  food ;  but  I  look  attentively  for 
them  in  these  long  forenoons,  and  they  have 
begun  to  regard  me  as  one  of  themselves.  My 
breath  freezes,  despite  my  pipe,  as  I  peer  from  the 
door;  and  with  a  fortnight-old  newspaper  I  retire 

183 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

to  the  ingle-nook.  The  friendliest  thing  I  have 
seen  to-day  is  the  well-smoked  ham  suspended 
from  my  kitchen  rafters.  It  was  a  gift  from  the 
farm  of  Tullin,  with  a  load  of  peats,  the  day  be- 
fore the  snow  began  to  fall.  I  doubt  if  I  have 
seen  a  cart  since. 

This  afternoon  I  was  the  not  altogether  passive 
spectator  of  a  curious  scene  in  natural  history. 
My  feet  encased  in  stout  "  tackety  "  boots,  I  had 
waded  down  two  of  Waster  Lunny's  fields  to  the 
glen  burn :  in  summer  the  never-failing  larder  from 
which,  with  wriggling  worm  or  garish  fly,  I  can 
any  morning  whip  a  savoury  breakfast;  in  the 
winter-time  the  only  thing  in  the  valley  that  defies 
the  ice-king's  chloroform.  I  watched  the  water 
twisting  black  and  solemn  through  the  snow,  the 
ragged  ice  on  its  edge  proof  of  the  toughness  of 
the  struggle  with  the  frost,  from  which  it  has,  after 
all,  crept  only  half  victorious.  A  bare  wild  rose- 
bush on  the  further  bank  was  violently  agitated, 
and  then  there  ran  from  its  root  a  black-headed  rat 
with  wings.  Such  was  the  general  effect.  I  was 
not  less  interested  when  my  startled  eyes  divided 
this  phenomenon  into  its  component  parts,  and  rec- 
ognized in  the  disturbance  on  the  opposite  bank 
only  another  fierce  struggle  among  the  hungry 
animals  for  existence :  they  need  no  professor  to 
teach  them  the  doctrine  of  the  survival  of  the  fit- 
test. A  weasel  had  gripped  a  water-hen  (whit-rit 

184 


THE   SCHOOLHOUSE 

and  beltie  they  are  called  in  these  parts)  cowering 
at  the  root  of  the  rose-bush,  and  was  being  dragged 
down  the  bank  by  the  terrified  bird,  which  made 
for  the  water  as  its  only  chance  of  escape.  In  less 
disadvantageous  circumstances  the  weasel  would 
have  made  short  work  of  his  victim ;  but  as  he 
only  had  the  bird  by  the  tail,  the  prospects  of  the 
combatants  were  equalized.  It  was  the  tug-of- 
war  being  played  with  a  life  as  the  stakes.  "  If  I 
do  not  reach  the  water,"  was  the  argument  that 
went  on  in  the  heaving  little  breast  of  the  one,  "I 
am  a  dead  bird."  "  If  this  water-hen,"  reasoned 
the  other,  "  reaches  the  burn,  my  supper  vanishes 
with  her."  Down  the  sloping  bank  the  hen  had 
distinctly  the  best  of  it,  but  after  that  came  a  yard 
of  level  snow,  and  here  she  tugged  and  screamed 
in  vain.  I  had  so  far  been  an  unobserved  specta- 
tor ;  but  my  sympathies  were  with  the  beltie,  and, 
thinking  it  high  time  to  interfere,  I  jumped  into 
the  water.  The  water-hen  gave  one  mighty  final 
tug  and  toppled  into  the  burn;  while  the  weasel 
viciously  showed  me  his  teeth,  and  then  stole  slowly 
up  the  bank  to  the  rose-bush,  whence,  "  girning," 
he  watched  me  lift  his  exhausted  victim  from  the 
water,  and  set  off  with  her  for  the  schoolhouse. 
Except  for  her  draggled  tail,  she  already  looks 
wonderfully  composed,  and  so  long  as  the  frost 
holds  I  shall  have  little  difficulty  in  keeping  her 
with  me.  On  Sunday  I  found  a  frozen  sparrow, 

185 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

whose  heart  had  almost  ceased  to  beat,  in  the  dis- 
used pig-sty,  and  put  him  for  warmth  into  my 
breast-pocket.  The  ungrateful  little  scrub  bolted 
without  a  word  of  thanks  about  ten  minutes  after- 
wards to  the  alarm  of  my  cat,  which  had  not  known 
his  whereabouts. 

I  am  alone  in  the  schoolhouse.  On  just  such 
an  evening  as  this  last  year  my  desolation  drove 
me  to  Waster  Lunny,  where  I  was  storm-stayed  for 
the  night.  The  recollection  decides  me  to  court 
my  own  warm  hearth,  to  challenge  my  right  hand 
again  to  a  game  at  the  "  dambrod "  against  my 
left.  I  do  not  lock  the  schoolhouse  door  at  nights ; 
for  even  a  highwayman  (there  is  no  such  luck) 
would  be  received  with  open  arms,  and  I  doubt  if 
there  be  a  barred  door  in  all  the  glen.  But  it  is 
cosier  to  put  on  the  shutters.  The  road  to  Thrums 
has  lost  itself  miles  down  the  valley.  I  wonder 
what  they  are  doing  out  in  the  world.  Though  I 
am  the  Free  Church  precentor  in  Thrums  (ten 
pounds  a  year,  and  the  little  town  is  five  miles 
away),  they  have  not  seen  me  for  three  weeks.  A 
packman  whom  I  thawed  yesterday  at  my  kitchen 
fire  tells  me,  that  last  Sabbath  only  the  Auld 
Lichts  held  service.  Other  people  realized  that 
they  were  snowed  up.  Far  up  the  glen,  after  it 
twists  out  of  view,  a  manse  and  half  a  dozen 
thatched  cottages  that  are  there  may  still  show  a 
candle  light,  and  the  crumbling  gravestones  keep 

1 86 


THE   SCHOOLHOUSE 

cold  vigil  round  the  grey  old  kirk.  Heavy  shad- 
ows fade  into  the  sky  to  the  north.  A  flake  trem- 
bles against  the  window;  but  it  is  too  cold  for 
much  snow  to-night.  The  shutter  bars  die  outer 
world  from  the  schoolhouse. 


187 


CHAPTER  II 

THRUMS 

THRUMS  is  the  name  I  give  here  to  the  handful  of 
houses  jumbled  together  in  a  cup,  which  is  the 
town  nearest  the  schoolhouse.  Until  twenty  years 
ago  its  every  other  room,  earthen-floored  and  show- 
ing the  rafters  overhead,  had  a  handloom,  and  hun- 
dreds of  weavers  lived  and  died  Thoreaus  "  ben  the 
hoose"  without  knowing  it.  In  those  days  the 
cup  overflowed  and  left  several  houses  on  the  top 
of  the  hill,  where  their  cold  skeletons  still  stand. 
The  road  that  climbs  from  the  square,  which  is 
Thrums's  heart,  to  the  north  is  so  steep  and  straight, 
that  in  a  sharp  frost  children  hunker  at  the  top  and 
are  blown  down  with  a  roar  and  a  rush  on  rails  of 
ice.  At  such  times,  when  viewed  from  the  ceme- 
tery where  the  traveller  from  the  schoolhouse  gets 
his  first  glimpse  of  the  little  town,  Thrums  is  but 
two  church  steeples  and  a  dozen  red  stone  patches 
standing  out  of  a  snow-heap.  One  of  the  steeples 
belongs  to  the  new  Free  Kirk,  and  the  other  to  the 
parish  church,  both  of  which  the  first  Auld  Licht 
minister  I  knew  ran  past  when  he  had  not  time  to 

T  QC 

loo 


THRUMS 

avoid  them  by  taking  a  back  wynd.  He  was  but 
a  pocket  edition  of  a  man,  who  grew  two  inches 
after  he  was  called ;  but  he  was  so  full  of  the  cure 
of  souls,  that  he  usually  scudded  to  it  with  his  coat- 
tails  quarrelling  behind  him.  His  successor,  whom 
I  knew  better,  was  a  greater  scholar,  and  said, "  Let 
us  see  what  this  is  in  the  original  Greek,"  as  an 
ordinary  man  might  invite  a  friend  to  dinner ;  but 
he  never  wrestled  as  Mr.  Dishart,  his  successor,  did 
with  the  pulpit  cushions,  nor  flung  himself  at  the 
pulpit  door.  Nor  was  he  so  "  hard  on  the  Book," 
as  Lang  Tammas,  the  precentor,  expressed  it,  mean- 
ing that  he  did  not  bang  the  Bible  with  his  fist  as 
much  as  might  have  been  wished. 

Thrums  had  been  known  to  me  for  years  before 
I  succeeded  the  captious  dominie  at  the  school- 
house  in  the  glen.  The  dear  old  soul  who  origi- 
nally induced  me  to  enter  the  Auld  Licht  kirk  by 
lamenting  the  "  want  of  Christ "  in  the  minister's 
discourses  was  my  first  landlady.  For  the  last  ten 
years  of  her  life  she  was  bedridden,  and  only  her 
interest  in  the  kirk  kept  her  alive.  Her  case  against 
the  minister  was  that  he  did  not  call  to  denounce 
her  sufficiently  often  for  her  sins,  her  pleasure  being 
to  hear  him  bewailing  her  on  his  knees  as  one  who 
was  probably  past  praying  for.  She  was  as  sweet 
and  pure  a  woman  as  I  ever  knew,  and  had  her 
wishes  been  horses,  she  would  have  sold  them  and 
kept  (and  looked  after)  a  minister  herself. 

189 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

There  are  few  Auld  Licht  communities  in  Scot- 
land nowadays  —  perhaps  because  people  are  now 
so  well  off,  for  the  most  devout  Auld  Lichts  were 
always  poor,  and  their  last  years  were  generally  a 
grim  struggle  with  the  workhouse.  Many  a  heavy- 
eyed,  back-bent  weaver  has  won  his  Waterloo  in 
Thrums  fighting  on  his  stumps.  There  are  a  score 
or  two  of  them  left  still,  for,  though  there  are  now 
two  factories  in  the  town,  the  clatter  of  the  hand- 
loom  can  yet  be  heard,  and  they  have  been  starv- 
ing themselves  of  late  until  they  have  saved  up 
enough  money  to  get  another  minister. 

The  square  is  packed  away  in  the  centre  of 
Thrums,  and  irregularly  built  little  houses  squeeze 
close  to  it  like  chickens  clustering  round  a  hen. 
Once  the  Auld  Lichts  held  property  in  the  square, 
but  other  denominations  have  bought  them  out  of 
it,  and  now  few  of  them  are  even  to  be  found  in 
the  main  streets  that  make  for  the  rim  of  the  cup. 
They  live  in  the  kirk-wynd,  or  in  retiring  little 
houses  the  builder  of  which  does  not  seem  to  have 
remembered  that  it  is  a  good  plan  to  have  a  road 
leading  to  houses  until  after  they  were  finished. 
Narrow  paths  straggling  round  gardens,  some  of 
them  with  stunted  gates,  which  it  is  commoner  to 
step  over  than  to  open,  have  been  formed  to  reach 
these  dwellings,  but  in  winter  they  are  running 
streams,  and  then  the  best  way  to  reach  a  house 
such  as  that  of  Tammy  Mealmaker  the  wright, 

loo 


THRUMS 

pronounced  wir-icht,  is  over  a  broken  dyke  and  a 
pig-sty.  Tammy,  who  died  a  bachelor,  had  been 
soured  in  his  youth  by  a  disappointment  in  love, 
of  which  he  spoke  but  seldom.  She  lived  far  away 
in  a  town  to  which  he  had  wandered  in  the  days 
when  his  blood  ran  hot,  and  they  became  engaged. 
Unfortunately,  however,  Tammy  forgot  her  name, 
and  he  never  knew  the  address ;  so  there  the  affair 
ended,  to  his  silent  grief.  He  admitted  himself, 
over  his  snuff-mull  of  an  evening,  that  he  was  a 
very  ordinary  character,  but  a  certain  halo  of  hor- 
ror was  cast  over  the  whole  family  by  their  con- 
nection with  little  Joey  Sutie,  who  was  pointed  at 
in  Thrums  as  the  laddie  that  whistled  when  he  went 
past  the  minister.  Joey  became  a  pedlar,  and  was 
found  dead  one  raw  morning  dangling  over  a  high 
wall  within  a  few  miles  of  Thrums.  When  climb- 
ing the  dyke  his  pack  had  slipped  back,  the  strap 
round  his  neck,  and  choked  him. 

You  could  generally  tell  an  Auld  Licht  in 
Thrums  when  you  passed  him,  his  dull  vacant  face 
wrinkled  over  a  heavy  wob.  He  wore  tags  of  yarn 
round  his  trousers  beneath  the  knee,  that  looked 
like  ostentatious  garters,  and  frequently  his  jacket 
of  corduroy  was  put  on  beneath  his  waistcoat.  If 
he  was  too  old  to  carry  his  load  on  his  back,  he 
wheeled  it  on  a  creaking  barrow,  and  when  he  met 
a  friend  they  said,  "  Ay,  Jeames,"  and  "  Ay,  Davit," 
and  then  could  think  of  nothing  else.  At  long 

191 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

intervals  they  passed  through  the  square,  disap- 
pearing or  coming  into  sight  round  the  town-house 
which  stands  on  the  south  side  of  it,  and  guards 
the  entrance  to  a  steep  brae  that  leads  down  and 
then  twists  up  on  its  lonely  way  to  the  county 
town.  I  like  to  linger  over  the  square,  for  it  was 
from  an  upper  window  in  it  that  I  got  to  know 
Thrums.  On  Saturday  nights,  when  the  Auld 
Licht  young  men  came  into  the  square  dressed  and 
washed  to  look  at  the  young  women  errand-going, 
and  to  laugh  sometime  afterwards  to  each  other,  it 
presented  a  glare  of  light ;  and  here  even  came  the 
cheap  jacks  and  the  Fair  Circassian,  and  the  show- 
man, who,  besides  playing  "  The  Mountain  Maid 
and  the  Shepherd's  Bride,"  exhibited  part  of  the 
tail  of  Balaam's  ass,  the  helm  of  Noah's  ark,  and 
the  tartan  plaid  in  which  Flora  McDonald  wrapped 
Prince  Charlie.  More  select  entertainment,  such  as 
Shuffle  Kitty's  waxwork,  whose  motto  was,  "  A  rag 
to  pay,  and  in  you  go,"  were  given  in  a  hall  whose 
approach  was  by  an  outside  stair.  On  the  Muckle 
Friday,  the  fair  for  which  children  storing  their 
pocket  money  would  accumulate  sevenpence-half- 
penny  in  less  than  six  months,  the  square  was 
crammed  with  gingerbread  stalls,  bag-pipers,  fid- 
dlers, and  monstrosities  who  were  gifted  with  sec- 
ond sight.  There  was  a  bearded  man,  who  had 
neither  legs  nor  arms,  and  was  drawn  through  the 
streets  in  a  small  cart  by  four  dogs.  By  looking 

192 


THRUMS 

at  you  he  could  see  all  the  clockwork  inside,  as 
could  a  boy  who  was  led  about  by  his  mother  at 
the  end  of  a  string.  Every  Friday  there  was  the 
market,  when  a  dozen  ramshackle  carts  containing 
vegetables  and  cheap  crockery  filled  the  centre  of 
the  square,  resting  in  line  on  their  shafts.  A  score 
of  farmers'  wives  or  daughters  in  old-world  gar- 
ments squatted  against  the  town-house  within  walls 
of  butter  on  cabbage-leaves,  eggs  and  chickens. 
Towards  evening  the  voice  of  the  buckie-man 
shook  the  square,  and  rival  fish-cadgers,  terrible 
characters  who  ran  races  on  horseback,  screamed 
libels  at  each  other  over  a  fruiterer's  barrow.  Then 
it  was  time  for  douce  Auld  Lichts  to  go  home, 
draw  their  stools  near  the  fire,  spread  their  red 
handkerchiefs  over  their  legs  to  prevent  their 
trousers  getting  singed,  and  read  their  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress." 

In  my  schoolhouse,  however,  I  seem  to  see  the 
square  most  readily  in  the  Scotch  mist  which  so 
often  filled  it,  loosening  the  stones  and  choking 
the  drains.  There  was  then  no  rattle  of  rain  against 
my  window-sill,  nor  dancing  of  diamond  drops  on 
the  roofs,  but  blobs  of  water  grew  on  the  panes  of 
glass  to  reel  heavily  down  them.  Then  the  sodden 
square  would  have  shed  abundant  tears  if  you 
could  have  taken  it  in  your  hands  and  wrung  it 
like  a  dripping  cloth.  At  such  a  time  the  square 
would  be  empty  but  for  one  vegetable  cart  left  in 

193 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

i 

the  care  of  a  lean  collie,  which,  tied  to  the  wheel, 
whined  and  shivered  underneath.  Pools  of  water 
gather  in  the  coarse  sacks,  that  have  been  spread 
over  the  potatoes  and  bundles  of  greens,  which 
turn  to  manure  in  their  lidless  barrels.  The  eyes 
of  the  whimpering  dog  never  leave  a  black  close 
over  which  hangs  the  sign  of  the  Bull,  probably 
the  refuge  of  the  hawker.  At  long  intervals  a 
farmer's  gig  rumbles  over  the  bumpy,  ill-paved 
square,  or  a  native,  with  his  head  buried  in  his  coat, 
peeps  out  of  doors,  skurries  across  the  way,  and 
vanishes.  Most  of  the  leading  shops  are  here,  and 
the  decorous  draper  ventures  a  few  yards  from  the 
pavement  to  scan  the  sky,  or  note  the  effect  of  his 
new  arrangement  in  scarves.  Planted  against  his 
door  is  the  butcher,  Henders  Todd,  white-aproned, 
and  with  a  knife  in  his  hand,  gazing  interestedly 
at  the  draper,  for  a  mere  man  may  look  at  an  elder. 
The  tinsmith  brings  out  his  steps,  and,  mounting 
them,  stealthily  removes  the  saucepans  and  pepper- 
pots  that  dangle  on  a  wire  above  his  sign-board. 
Pulling  to  his  door  he  shuts  out  the  foggy  light 
that  showed  in  his  solder-strewn  workshop.  The 
square  is  deserted  again.  A  bundle  of  sloppy  pars- 
ley slips  from  the  hawker's  cart  and  topples  over 
the  wheel  in  driblets.  The  puddles  in  the  sacks 
overflow  and  run  together.  The  dog  has  twisted 
his  chain  round  a  barrel  and  yelps  sharply.  As  if 
in  response  comes  a  rush  of  other  dogs.  A  terri- 

194 


THRUMS 

fied  fox-terrier  tears  across  the  square  with  half  a 
score  of  mongrels,  the  butcher's  mastiff  and  some 
collies  at  his  heels ;  he  is  doubtless  a  stranger  who 
has  insulted  them  by  his  glossy  coat.  For  two 
seconds  the  square  shakes  to  an  invasion  of  dogs, 
and  then,  again,  there  is  only  one  dog  in  sight. 

No  one  will  admit  the  Scotch  mist.  It  "  looks 
saft."  The  tinsmith  "  wudna  wonder  but  what  it 
was  makkin  for  rain."  Tammas  Haggart  and  Pete 
Lunan  dander  into  sight  bareheaded,  and  have  to 
stretch  out  their  hands  to  discover  what  the  weather 
is  like.  By  and  by  they  come  to  a  standstill  to 
discuss  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  then  they 
are  looking  silently  at  the  Bull.  Neither  speaks, 
but  they  begin  to  move  toward  the  inn  at  the  same 
time,  and  its  door  closes  on  them  before  they  know 
what  they  are  doing.  A  few  minutes  afterwards 
Jinny  Dundas,  who  is  Pete's  wife,  runs  straight  for 
the  Bull  in  her  short  gown,  which  is  tucked  up 
very  high,  and  emerges  with  her  husband  soon 
afterwards.  Jinny  is  voluble,  but  Pete  says  noth- 
ing. Tammas  follows  later,  putting  his  head  out 
at  the  door  first,  and  looking  cautiously  about  him 
to  see  if  any  one  is  in  sight.  Pete  is  a  U.  P.,  and 
may  be  left  to  his  fate,  but  the  Auld  Licht  minister 
thinks  that  though  it  be  hard  work,  Tammas  is 
worth  saving. 

To  the  Auld  Licht  of  the  past  there  were  three 
degrees  of  damnation  —  auld  kirk,  play-acting, 

195 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

chapeL  Chapel  was  the  name  always  given  to 
the  English  Church,  of  which  I  am  too  much  an 
Auld  Licht  myself  to  care  to  write  even  now.  To 
belong  to  the  chapel  was,  in  Thrums,  to  be  a 
Roman  Catholic,  and  the  boy  who  flung  a  clod 
of  earth  at  the  English  minister  —  who  called  the 
Sabbath  Sunday  —  or  dropped  a  "  divet "  down  his 
chimney  was  held  to  be  in  the  right  way.  The 
only  pleasant  story  Thrums  could  tell  of  the 
chapel  was  that  its  steeple  once  fell.  It  is  sur- 
prising that  an  English  church  was  ever  suffered 
to  be  built  in  such  a  place ;  though  probably  the 
county  gentry  had  something  to  do  with  it.  They 
travelled  about  too  much  to  be  good  men.  Small 
though  Thrums  used  to  be,  it  had  four  kirks  in 
all  before  the  Disruption,  and  then  another,  which 
split  into  two  immediately  afterwards.  The  spire 
of  the  parish  church,  known  as  the  auld  kirk, 
commands  a  view  of  the  square,  from  which  the 
entrance  to  the  kirkyard  would  be  visible,  if  it 
were  not  hidden  by  the  town-house.  The  kirk- 
yard  has  long  been  crammed,  and  is  not  now  in 
use,  but  the  church  is  sufficiently  large  to  hold 
nearly  all  the  congregations  in  Thrums.  Just  at 
the  gate  lived  Pete  Todd,  the  father  of  Sam'l,  a 
man  of  whom  the  Auld  Lichts  had  reason  to  be 
proud.  Pete  was  an  every-day  man  at  ordinary 
times,  and  was  even  said,  when  his  wife,  who  had 
been  long  ill,  died,  to  have  clapped  his  hands  and 

Iq6 


THRUMS 

exclaimed,  "Hip,  hip,  hurrah!"  adding  only  as 
an  afterthought,  "  The  Lord's  will  be  done."  But 
midsummer  was  his  great  opportunity.  Then 
took  place  the  rouping  of  the  seats  in  the  parish 
church.  The  scene  was  the  kirk  itself,  and  the 
seats  being  put  up  to  auction  were  knocked  down 
to  the  highest  bidder.  This  sometimes  led  to  the 
breaking  of  the  peace.  Every  person  was  present 
who  was  at  all  particular  as  to  where  he  sat,  and 
an  auctioneer  was  engaged  for  the  day.  He 
rouped  the  kirk-seats  like  potato-drills,  beginning 
by  asking  for  a  bid.  Every  seat  was  put  up  to 
auction  separately;  for  some  were  much  more 
run  after  than  others,  and  the  men  were  instructed 
by  their  wives  what  to  bid  for.  Often  the  women 
joined  in,  and  as  they  bid  excitedly  against  each 
other  the  church  rang  with  opprobrious  epithets. 
A  man  would  come  to  the  roup  late,  and  learn 
that  the  seat  he  wanted  had  been  knocked 
down.  He  maintained  that  he  had  been  unfairly 
treated,  or  denounced  the  local  laird  to  whom  the 
seat-rents  went.  If  he  did  not  get  the  seat  he 
would  leave  the  kirk.  Then  the  woman  who 
had  forestalled  him  wanted  to  know  what  he 
meant  by  glaring  at  her  so,  and  the  auction  was 
interrupted.  Another  member  would  "  thrip  down 
the  throat "  of  the  auctioneer  that  he  had  a  right 
to  his  former  seat  if  he  continued  to  pay  the  same 
price  for  it.  The  auctioneer  was  screamed  at  for 

197 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

favouring  his  friends,  and  at  times  the  roup  became 
so  noisy  that  men  and  women  had  to  be  forcibly 
ejected.  Then  was  Pete's  chance.  Hovering  at 
the  gate,  he  caught  the  angry  people  on  their  way 
home  and  took  them  into  his  workshop  by  an 
outside  stair.  There  he  assisted  them  in  de- 
nouncing the  parish  kirk,  with  the  view  of  getting 
them  to  forswear  it.  Pete  made  a  good  many 
Auld  Lichts  in  his  time  out  of  unpromising 
material. 

Sights  were  to  be  witnessed  in  the  parish  church 
at  times  that  could  not  have  been  made  more  im- 
pressive by  the  Auld  Lichts  themselves.  Here 
sinful  women  were  grimly  taken  to  task  by  the 
minister,  who,  having  thundered  for  a  time  against 
adultery  in  general,  called  upon  one  sinner  in 
particular  to  stand  forth.  She  had  to  step  forward 
into  a  pew  near  the  pulpit,  where,  alone  and 
friendless,  and  stared  at  by  the  congregation,  she 
cowered  in  tears  beneath  his  denunciations.  In 
that  seat  she  had  to  remain  during  the  forenoon 
service.  She  returned  home  alone,  and  had  to 
come  back  alone  to  her  solitary  seat  in  the  after- 
noon. All  day  no  one  dared  speak  to  her.  She 
was  as  much  an  object  of  contumely  as  the  thieves 
and  smugglers  whom,  in  the  end  of  last  century, 
it  was  the  privilege  of  Feudal  Bailie  Wood  (as 
he  was  called)  to  whip  round  the  square. 

It  is  nearly  twenty  years  since   the   gardeners 
198 


THRUMS 

had  their  last  "  walk  "  in  Thrums,  and  they  sur- 
vived all  the  other  benefit  societies  that  walked 
once  every  summer.  There  was  a  "weavers' 
walk  "  and  five  or  six  others,  the  "  women's  walk  " 
being  the  most  picturesque.  These  were  proces- 
sions of  the  members  of  benefit  societies  through 
the  square  and  wynds,  and  all  the  women  walked 
in  white,  to  the  number  of  a  hundred  or  more, 
behind  the  Tilliedrum  band,  Thrums  having  in 
those  days  no  band  of  its  own. 

From  the  north-west  corner  of  the  square  a 
narrow  street  sets  off,  jerking  this  way  and  that 
as  if  uncertain  what  point  to  make  for.  Here 
lurks  the  post-office,  which  had  once  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  as  crooked  in  its  ways  as  the  street 
itself. 

A  railway  line  runs  into  Thrums  now.  The 
sensational  days  of  the  post-office  were  when  the 
letters  were  conveyed  officially  in  a  creaking  old 
cart  from  Tilliedrum.  The  "pony"  had  seen 
better  days  than  the  cart,  and  always  looked  as  if 
he  were  just  on  the  point  of  succeeding  in  run- 
ning away  from  it.  Hooky  Crewe  was  driver; 
so-called  because  an  iron  hook  was  his  substitute 
for  a  right  arm :  Robbie  Proctor,  the  blacksmith, 
made  the  hook  and  fixed  it  in.  Crewe  suffered 
from  rheumatism,  and  when  he  felt  it  coming  on 
he  stayed  at  home.  Sometimes  his  cart  came  un- 
done in  a  snowdrift;  when  Hooky,  extricated 

199 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

from  the  fragments  by  some  chance  wayfarer,  was 
deposited  with  his  mail-bag  (of  which  he  always 
kept  a  grip  by  the  hook)  in  a  farm-house.  It  was 
his  boast  that  his  letters  always  reached  their  des- 
tination eventually.  They  might  be  a  long  time 
about  it,  but  "slow  and  sure"  was  his  motto. 
Hooky  emphasized  his  "  slow  and  sure "  by 
taking  a  snuff.  He  was  a  godsend  to  the  post- 
mistress, for  to  his  failings  or  the  infirmities  of 
his  gig  were  charged  all  delays. 

At  the  time  I  write  of,  the  posting  of  the  letter 
took  as  long  and  was  as  serious  an  undertaking 
as  the  writing.  That  means  a  good  deal,  for  many 
of  the  letters  were  written  to  dictation  by  the 
Thrums  schoolmaster,  Mr.  Fleemister,  who  be- 
longed to  the  Auld  Kirk.  He  was  one  of  the  few 
persons  in  the  community  who  looked  upon  the 
despatch  of  his  letters  by  the  postmistress  as  his 
right,  and  not  a  favour  on  her  part;  there  was  a 
long-standing  feud  between  them  accordingly. 
After  a  few  tumblers  of  Widow  Stables's  treacle- 
beer —  in  the  concoction  of  which  she  was  the  ac- 
knowledged mistress  for  miles  around  —  the  school- 
master would  sometimes  go  the  length  of  hinting 
that  he  could  get  the  postmistress  dismissed  any 
day.  This  mighty  power  seemed  to  rest  on  a 
knowledge  of  "  steamed  "  letters.  Thrums  had  a 
high  respect  for  the  schoolmaster ;  but  among  them- 
selves the  weavers  agreed  that,  even  if  he  did  write 

2OO 


THRUMS 

to  the  Government,  Lizzie  Harrison,  the  postmis- 
tress, would  refuse  to  transmit  the  letter.  The 
more  shrewd  ones  among  us  kept  friends  with  both 
parties ;  for,  unless  you  could  write  "  writ-hand," 
you  could  not  compose  a  letter  without  the  school- 
master's assistance ;  and,  unless  Lizzie  was  so  cour- 
teous as  to  send  it  to  its  destination,  it  might  lie  — 
or  so  it  was  thought  —  much  too  long  in  the  box. 
A  letter  addressed  by  the  schoolmaster  found  great 
disfavour  in  Lizzie's  eyes.  You  might  explain  to 
her  that  you  had  merely  called  in  his  assistance 
because  you  were  a  poor  hand  at  writing  yourself, 
but  that  was  held  no  excuse.  Some  addressed 
their  own  envelopes  with  much  labour,  and  sought 
to  palm  off  the  whole  as  their  handiwork.  It  re- 
flects on  the  postmistress  somewhat  that  she  had 
generally  found  them  out  by  next  day,  when,  if  in 
a  specially  vixenish  mood,  she  did  not  hesitate  to 
upbraid  them  for  their  perfidy. 

To  post  a  letter  you  did  not  merely  saunter  to 
the  post-office  and  drop  it  into  the  box.  The  cau- 
tious correspondent  first  went  into  the  shop  and 
explained  to  Lizzie  how  matters  stood.  She  kept 
what  she  called  a  bookseller's  shop  as  well  as  the 
post-office ;  but  the  supply  of  books  corresponded 
exactly  to  the  lack  of  demand  for  them,  and  her 
chief  trade  was  in  nicknacks,  from  marbles  and 
money-boxes  up  to  concertinas.  If  he  found  the 
postmistress  in  an  amiable  mood,  which  was  only 

201 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

now  and  then,  the  caller  led  up  craftily  to  the  ob- 
ject of  his  visit.  Having  discussed  the  weather 
and  the  potato-disease,  he  explained  that  his  sister 
Mary,  whom  Lizzie  would  remember,  had  married 
a  fishmonger  in  Dundee.  The  fishmonger  had 
lately  started  on  himself  and  was  doing  well.  They 
had  four  children.  The  youngest  had  had  a  severe 
attack  of  measles.  No  news  had  been  got  of  Mary 
for  twelve  months;  and  Annie,  his  other  sister, 
who  lived  in  Thrums,  had  been  at  him  of  late  for 
not  writing.  So  he  had  written  a  few  lines ;  and, 
in  fact,  he  had  the  letter  with  him.  The  letter  was 
then  produced,  and  examined  by  the  postmistress. 
If  the  address  was  in  the  schoolmaster's  handwrit- 
ing, she  professed  her  inability  to  read  it.  Was 
this  a  /  or  an  /  or  an  i?  was  that  a  b  or  a  d?  This 
was  a  cruel  revenge  on  Lizzie's  part ;  for  the  sen- 
der of  the  letter  was  completely  at  her  mercy.  The 
schoolmaster's  name  being  tabooed  in  her  presence, 
he  was  unable  to  explain  that  the  writing  was  not 
his  own ;  and  as  for  deciding  between  the  /  's  and 
/'s,  he  could  not  do  it.  Eventually  he  would  be 
directed  to  put  the  letter  into  the  box.  They 
would  do  their  best  with  it,  Lizzie  said,  but  in  a 
voice  that  suggested  how  little  hope  she  had  of  her 
efforts  to  decipher  it  proving  successful. 

There  was  an  opinion  among  some  of  the  people 
that  the  letter  should  not  be  stamped  by  the 
sender.  The  proper  thing  to  do  was  to  drop  a 

2O2 


THRUMS 

penny  for  the  stamp  into  the  box  along  with  the 
letter,  and  then  Lizzie  would  see  that  it  was  all 
right.  Lizzie's  acquaintance  with  the  handwriting 
of  every  person  in  the  place  who  could  write  gave 
her  a  great  advantage.  You  would  perhaps  drop 
into  her  shop  some  day  to  make  a  purchase,  when 
she  would  calmly  produce  a  letter  you  had  posted 
several  days  before.  In  explanation  she  would 
tell  you  that  you  had  not  put  a  stamp  on  it,  or 
that  she  suspected  there  was  money  in  it,  or  that 
you  had  addressed  it  to  the  wrong  place.  I  re- 
member an  old  man,  a  relative  of  my  own,  who 
happened  for  once  in  his  life  to  have  several  letters 
to  post  at  one  time.  The  circumstance  was  so  out 
of  the  common  that  he  considered  it  only  reasonable 
to  make  Lizzie  a  small  present. 

Perhaps  the  postmistress  was  belied ;  but  if  she 
did  not  "  steam  "  the  letters  and  confide  their  tit- 
bits to  favoured  friends  of  her  own  sex,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  see  how  all  the  gossip  got  out.  The  school- 
master once  played  an  unmanly  trick  on  her,  with 
the  view  of  catching  her  in  the  act.  He  was  a 
bachelor  who  had  long  been  given  up  by  all  the 
maids  in  the  town.  One  day,  however,  he  wrote 
a  letter  to  an  imaginary  lady  in  the  county-town, 
asking  her  to  be  his,  and  going  into  full  particulars 
about  his  income,  his  age,  and  his  prospects.  A 
male  friend  in  the  secret,  at  the  other  end,  was  to 
reply,  in  a  lady's  handwriting,  accepting  him,  and 

203 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

also  giving  personal  particulars.  The  first  letter 
was  written ;  and  an  answer  arrived  in  due  course 
—  two  days,  the  schoolmaster  said,  after  date.  No 
other  person  knew  of  this  scheme  for  the  undoing 
of  the  postmistress,  yet  in  a  very  short  time  the 
schoolmaster's  coming  marriage  was  the  talk  of 
Thrums.  Everybody  became  suddenly  aware  of 
the  lady's  name,  of  her  abode,  and  of  the  sum  of 
money  she  was  to  bring  her  husband.  It  was  even 
noised  abroad  that  the  schoolmaster  had  repre- 
sented his  age  as  a  good  ten  years  less  than  it  was. 
Then  the  schoolmaster  divulged  everything.  To 
his  mortification,  he  was  not  quite  believed.  All 
the  proof  he  could  bring  forward  to  support  his 
story  was  this :  that  time  would  show  whether  he  got 
married  or  not.  Foolish  man !  this  argument  was 
met  by  another,  which  was  accepted  at  once.  The 
lady  had  jilted  the  schoolmaster.  Whether  this 
explanation  came  from  the  post-office,  who  shall 
say  *?  But  so  long  as  he  lived  the  schoolmaster  was 
twitted  about  the  lady  who  threw  him  over.  He 
took  his  revenge  in  two  ways.  He  wrote  and 
posted  letters  exceedingly  abusive  of  the  postmis- 
tress. The  matter  might  be  libellous;  but  then, 
as  he  pointed  out,  she  would  incriminate  herself 
if  she  "  brought  him  up "  about  it.  Probably 
Lizzie  felt  his  other  insult  more.  By  publishing 
his  suspicions  of  her  on  every  possible  occasion  he 
got  a  few  people  to  seal  their  letters.  So  bitter 

204 


THRUMS 

was  his  feeling  against  her  that  he  was  even  will- 
ing to  supply  the  wax. 

They  know  all  about  post-offices  in  Thrums 
now,  and  even  jeer  at  the  telegraph-boy's  uniform. 
In  the  old  days  they  gathered  round  him  when  he 
was  seen  in  the  street,  and  escorted  him  to  his  des- 
tination in  triumph.  That,  too,  was  after  Lizzie 
had  gone  the  way  of  all  the  earth.  But  perhaps  they 
are  not  even  yet  as  knowing  as  they  think  them- 
selves. I  was  told  the  other  day  that  one  of  them 
took  out  a  postal  order,  meaning  to  send  the  money 
to  a  relative,  and  kept  the  order  as  a  receipt. 

I  have  said  that  the  town  is  sometimes  full  of 
snow.  One  frosty  Saturday,  seven  years  ago,  I 
trudged  into  it  from  the  schoolhouse,  and  on  the 
Monday  morning  we  could  not  see  Thrums  any- 
where. 

I  was  in  one  of  the  proud  two-storied  houses  in 
the  place,  and  could  have  shaken  hands  with  my 
friends  without  from  the  upper  windows.  To  get 
out  of  doors  you  had  to  walk  upstairs.  The  out- 
look was  a  sea  of  snow  fading  into  white  hills  and 
sky  with  the  quarry  standing  out  red  and  ragged 
to  the  right  like  a  rock  in  the  ocean.  The  Auld 
Licht  manse  was  gone,  but  had  left  its  garden- 
trees  behind,  their  lean  branches  soft  with  snow. 
Roofs  were  humps  in  the  white  blanket.  The 
spire  of  the  Established  Kirk  stood  up  cold  and 
stiff,  like  a  monument  to  the  buried  inhabitants. 

205 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

Those  of  the  natives  who  had  taken  the  precau- 
tion of  conveying  spades  into  their  houses  the 
night  before,  which  is  my  plan  at  the  schoolhouse, 
dug  themselves  out.  They  hobbled  cautiously 
over  the  snow,  sometimes  sinking  into  it  to  their 
knees,  when  they  stood  still  and  slowly  took  in  the 
situation.  It  had  been  snowing  more  or  less  for  a 
week,  but  in  a  commonplace  kind  of  way,  and 
they  had  gone  to  bed  thinking  all  was  well.  This 
night  the  snow  must  have  fallen  as  if  the  heavens 
had  opened  up,  determined  to  shake  themselves 
free  of  it  for  ever. 

The  man  who  first  came  to  himself  and  saw  what 
was  to  be  done  was  young  Henders  Ramsay.  Hen- 
ders  had  no  -fixed  occupation,  being  but  an  "  orra 
man"  about  the  place,  and  the  best  thing  known 
of  him  is  that  his  mother's  sister  was  a  Baptist.  He 
feared  God,  man,  nor  the  minister;  and  all  the 
learning  he  had  was  obtained  from  assiduous  study 
of  a  grocer's  window.  But  for  one  brief  day  he 
had  things  his  own  way  in  the  town,  or,  speak- 
ing strictly,  on  the  top  of  it.  With  a  spade,  a 
broom,  and  a  pickaxe,  which  sat  lightly  on  his 
broad  shoulders  (he  was  not  even  back-bent,  and 
that  showed  him  no  respectable  weaver),  Henders 
delved  his  way  to  the  nearest  house,  which  formed 
one  of  a  row,  and  addressed  the  inmates  down  the 
chimney.  They  had  already  been  clearing  it  at 
the  other  end,  or  his  words  would  have  been 

206 


THRUMS 

choked.  "  You're  snawed  up,  Davit,"  cried  Hen- 
ders, in  a  voice  that  was  entirely  businesslike; 
"  hae  ye  a  spade  *?  "  A  conversation  ensued  up 
and  down  this  unusual  channel  of  communication. 
The  unlucky  householder,  taking  no  thought  of 
the  morrow,  was  without  a  spade.  But  if  Henders 
would  clear  away  the  snow  from  his  door  he  would 
be  "varra  obleeged."  Henders,  however,  had  to 
come  to  terms  first.  "  The  chairge  is  saxpence, 
Davit,"  he  shouted.  Then  a  haggling  ensued. 
Henders  must  be  neighbourly.  A  plate  of  broth, 
now  —  or,  say,  twopence.  But  Henders  was  ob- 
durate. "I'se  nae  time  to  argy-bargy  wi'  ye, 
Davit.  Gin  ye're  no  willin'  to  say  saxpence, 
I'm  aff  to  Will'um  Pyatt's.  He's  buried  too." 
So  the  victim  had  to  make  up  his  mind  to  one  of 
two  things:  he  must  either  say  saxpence  or  re- 
main where  he  was. 

If  Henders  was  "  promised,"  he  took  good  care 
that  no  snowed-up  inhabitant  should  perjure  him- 
self. He  made  his  way  to  a  window  first,  and, 
clearing  the  snow  from  the  top  of  it,  pointed  out 
that  he  could  not  conscientiously  proceed  further 
until  the  debt  had  been  paid.  "  Money  doon,"  he 
cried,  as  soon  as  he  reached  a  pane  of  glass ;  or, 
"  Come  awa  wi'  my  saxpence  noo." 

The  belief  that  this  day  had  not  come  to  Hen- 
ders unexpectedly  was  borne  out  by  the  method 
of  the  crafty  callant.  His  charges  varied  from 

207 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

sixpence  to  half-a-crown,  according  to  the  wealth 
and  status  of  his  victims ;  and  when,  later  on,  there 
were  rivals  in  the  snow,  he  had  the  discrimination 
to  reduce  his  minimum  fee  to  threepence.  He 
had  the  honour  of  digging  out  three  ministers  at 
one  shilling,  one  and  threepence,  and  two  shillings 
respectively. 

Half  a  dozen  times  within  the  next  fortnight 
the  town  was  reburied  in  snow.  This  generally 
happened  in  the  night-time;  but  the  inhabitants 
were  not  to  be  caught  unprepared  again.  Spades 
stood  ready  to  their  hands  in  the  morning,  and 
they  fought  their  way  above  ground  without  Hen- 
ders  Ramsay's  assistance.  To  clear  the  snow  from 
the  narrow  wynds  and  pends,  however,  was  a  task 
not  to  be  attempted ;  and  the  Auld  Lichts,  at  least, 
rested  content  when  enough  light  got  into  their 
workshops  to  let  them  see  where  their  looms  stood. 
Wading  through  beds  of  snow  they  did  not  much 
mind ;  but  they  wondered  what  would  happen  to 
their  houses  when  the  thaw  came. 

The  thaw  was  slow  in  coming.  Snow  during 
the  night  and  several  degrees  of  frost  by  day  were 
what  Thrums  began  to  accept  as  a  revised  order 
of  nature.  Vainly  the  Thrums  doctor,  whose 
practice  extends  into  the  glens,  made  repeated  at- 
tempts to  reach  his  distant  patients,  twice  driving 
so  far  into  the  dreary  waste  that  he  could  neither 
go  on  nor  turn  back.  A  ploughman  who  con- 

208 


THRUMS 

trived  to  gallop  ten  miles  for  him  did  not  get 
home  for  a  week.  Between  the  town,  which  is 
nowadays  an  agricultural  centre  of  some  import- 
ance, and  the  outlying  farms  communication  was 
cut  off  for  a  month ;  and  I  heard  subsequently  of 
one  farmer  who  did  not  see  a  human  being,  un- 
connected with  his  own  farm,  for  seven  weeks. 
The  schoolhouse,  which  I  managed  to  reach  only 
two  days  behind  time,  was  closed  for  a  fortnight, 
and  even  in  Thrums  there  was  only  a  sprinkling 
of  scholars. 

On  Sundays  the  feeling  between  the  different 
denominations  ran  high,  and  the  middling  good 
folk  who  did  not  go  to  church  counted  those  who 
did.  In  the  Established  Church  there  was  a  sparse 
gathering,  who  waited  in  vain  for  the  minister. 
After  a  time  it  got  abroad  that  a  flag  of  distress 
was  flying  from  the  manse,  and  then  they  saw  that 
the  minister  was  storm-stayed.  An  office-bearer 
offered  to  conduct  service ;  but  the  others  present 
thought  they  had  done  their  duty  and  went  home. 
The  U.  P.  bell  did  not  ring  at  all,  and  the  kirk 
gates  were  not  opened.  The  Free  Kirk  did 
bravely,  however.  The  attendance  in  the  fore- 
noon amounted  to  seven,  including  the  minister; 
but  in  the  afternoon  there  was  a  turn-out  of  up- 
wards of  fifty.  How  much  denominational  com- 
petition had  to  do  with  this,  none  can  say;  but 
the  general  opinion  was  that  this  muster  to  after- 

209 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

noon  service  was  a  piece  of  vainglory.  Next 
Sunday  all  the  kirks  were  on  their  mettle,  and, 
though  the  snow  was  drifting  the  whole  day,  ser- 
vices were  general.  It  was  felt  that  after  the  action 
of  the  Free  Kirk  the  Establisheds  and  the  U.  P.'s 
must  show  what  they  too  were  capable  of.  So, 
when  the  bells  rang  at  eleven  o'clock  and  two, 
church-goers  began  to  pour  out  of  every  close.  If 
I  remember  aright,  the  victory  lay  with  the  U.  P.'s 
by  two  women  and  a  boy.  Of  course  the  Auid 
Lichts  mustered  in  as  great  force  as  ever.  The 
other  kirks  never  dreamt  of  competing  with  them. 
What  was  regarded  as  a  judgment  on  the  Free 
Kirk  for  its  boastfulness  of  spirit  on  the  preceding 
Sunday  happened  during  the  forenoon.  While 
the  service  was  taking  place  a  huge  clod  of  snow 
slipped  from  the  roof  and  fell  right  against  the 
church  door.  It  was  some  time  before  the  pris- 
oners could  make  up  their  minds  to  leave  by  the 
windows.  What  the  Auld  Lichts  would  have 
done  in  a  similar  predicament  I  cannot  even  con- 
jecture. 

That  was  the  first  warning  of  the  thaw.  It  froze 
again ;  there  was  more  snow ;  the  thaw  began  in 
earnest;  and  then  the  streets  were  a  sight  to  see. 
There  was  no  traffic  to  turn  the  snow  to  slush,  and, 
where  it  had  not  been  piled  up  in  walls  a  few  feet 
from  the  houses,  it  remained  in  the  narrow  ways 
till  it  became  a  lake.  It  tried  to  escape  through 

2IO 


THRUMS 

doorways,  when  it  sank  slowly  into  the  floors. 
Gentle  breezes  created  a  ripple  on  its  surface,  and 
strong  winds  lifted  it  into  the  air  and  flung  it 
against  the  houses.  It  undermined  the  heaps  of 
clotted  snow  till  they  tottered  like  icebergs  and  fell 
to  pieces.  Men  made  their  way  through  it  on 
stilts.  Had  a  frost  followed,  the  result  would  have 
been  appalling;  but  there  was  no  more  frost  that 
winter.  A  fortnight  passed  before  the  place  looked 
itself  again,  and  even  then  congealed  snow  stood 
doggedly  in  the  streets,  while  the  country  roads 
were  like  newly  ploughed  fields  after  rain.  The 
heat  from  large  fires  soon  penetrated  through  roofs 
of  slate  and  thatch ;  and  it  was  quite  a  common 
thing  for  a  man  to  be  flattened  to  the  ground  by  a 
slithering  of  snow  from  above  just  as  he  opened 
his  door.  But  it  had  seldom  more  than  ten  feet  to 
fall.  Most  interesting  of  all  was  the  novel  sensa- 
tion experienced  as  Thrums  began  to  assume  its 
familiar  aspect,  and  objects  so  long  buried  that  they 
had  been  half  forgotten  came  back  to  view  and  use. 
Storm-stayed  shows  used  to  emphasize  the  sever- 
ity of  a  Thrums  winter.  As  the  name  indicates, 
these  were  gatherings  of  travelling  booths  in  the 
winter-time.  Half  a  century  ago  the  country  was 
overrun  by  itinerant  showmen,  who  went  their  dif- 
ferent ways  in  summer,  but  formed  little  colonies  in 
the  cold  weather,  when  they  pitched  their  tents  in 
any  empty  field  or  disused  quarry  and  huddled 

211 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

together  for  the  sake  of  warmth :  not  that  they  got 
much  of  it.  Not  more  than  five  winters  ago  we 
had  a  storm-stayed  show  on  a  small  scale ;  but  now- 
adays the  farmers  are  less  willing  to  give  these 
wanderers  a  camping-place,  and  the  people  are  less 
easily  drawn  to  the  entertainments  provided,  by 
fife  and  drum.  The  colony  hung  together  until  it 
was  starved  out,  when  it  trailed  itself  elsewhere.  I 
have  often  seen  it  forming.  The  first  arrival  would 
be  what  was  popularly  known  as  "Sam'l  Mann's 
Tumbling-Booth,"  with  its  tumblers,  jugglers, 
sword-swallowers,  and  balancers.  This  travelling 
show  visited  us  regularly  twice  a  year:  once  in 
summer  for  the  Muckle  Friday,  when  the  per- 
formers were  gay  and  stout,  and  even  the  horses 
had  flesh  on  their  bones;  and  again  in  the  "back- 
end  "  of  the  year,  when  cold  and  hunger  had  taken 
the  blood  from  their  faces,  and  the  scraggy  dogs 
that  whined  at  their  side  were  lashed  for  licking  the 
paint  off  the  caravans.  While  the  storm-stayed 
show  was  in  the  vicinity  the  villages  suffered  from 
an  invasion  of  these  dogs.  Nothing  told  more  truly 
the  dreadful  tale  of  the  showman's  life  in  winter. 
Sam'l  Mann's  was  a  big  show,  and  half  a  dozen 
smaller  ones,  most  of  which  were  familiar  to  us, 
crawled  in  its  wake.  Others  heard  of  its  where- 
abouts and  came  in  from  distant  parts.  There  was 
the  well-known  Gubbins  with  his  "  A'  the  World 
in  a  Box : "  a  halfpenny  peepshow,  in  which  all  the 

212 


THRUMS 

world  was  represented  by  Joseph  and  his  Brethren 
(with  pit  and  coat),  the  bombardment  of  Copen- 
hagen, the  Battle  of  the  Nile,  Daniel  in  the  Den 
of  Lions,  and  Mount  Etna  in  eruption.  "Aunt 
Maggy's  Whirligig"  could  be  enjoyed  on  pay- 
ment of  an  old  pair  of  boots,  a  collection  of  rags, 
or  the  like.  Besides  these  and  other  shows,  there 
were  the  wandering  minstrels,  most  of  whom  were 
"Waterloo  veterans"  wanting  arms  or  a  leg.  I 
remember  one  whose  arms  had  been  "  smashed  by 
a  thunderbolt  at  Jamaica."  Queer  bent  old  dames, 
who  superintended  "  lucky  bags  "  or  told  fortunes, 
supplied  the  uncanny  element,  but  hesitated  to  call 
themselves  witches,  for  there  can  still  be  seen  near 
Thrums  the  pool  where  these  unfortunates  used  to 
be  drowned,  and  in  the  session  book  of  the  Glen 
Quharity  kirk  can  be  read  an  old  minute  announc- 
ing that  on  a  certain  Sabbath  there  was  no  preach- 
ing because  "  the  minister  was  away  at  the  burning 
of  a  witch."  To  the  storm-stayed  shows  came  the 
gypsies  in  great  numbers.  Claypots  (which  is  a 
corruption  of  Claypits)  was  their  headquarters  near 
Thrums,  and  it  is  still  sacred  to  their  memory.  It 
was  a  clachan  of  miserable  little  huts  built  entirely 
of  clay  from  the  dreary  and  sticky  pit  in  which 
they  had  been  flung  together.  A  shapeless  hole  on 
one  side  was  the  doorway,  and  a  little  hole,  stuffed 
with  straw  in  winter,  the  window.  Some  of  the 
remnants  of  these  hovels  still  stand.  Their  occu- 

213 


AULD  LIGHT   IDYLLS 

pants,  though  they  went  by  the  name  of  gypsies 
among  themselves,  were  known  to  the  weavers  as 
the  Claypots  beggars ;  and  their  King  was  Jimmy 
Pawse.  His  regal  dignity  gave  Jimmy  the  right 
to  seek  alms  first  when  he  chose  to  do  so;  thus  he 
got  the  cream  of  a  place  before  his  subjects  set  to 
work.  He  was  rather  foppish  in  his  dress ;  gener- 
ally affecting  a  suit  of  grey  cloth  with  showy  metal 
buttons  on  it,  and  a  broad  blue  bonnet.  His  wife 
was  a  little  body  like  himself;  and  when  they  went 
a-begging,  Jimmy  with  a  meal-bag  for  alms  on  his 
back,  she  always  took  her  husband's  asm.  Jimmy 
was  the  legal  adviser  of  his  subjects ;  his  decision 
was  considered  final  on  all  questions,  and  he  guided 
them  in  their  courtships  as  well  as  on  their  death- 
beds. He  christened  their  children  and  officiated 
at  their  weddings,  marrying  them  over  the  tongs. 
The  storm-stayed  show  attracted  old  and  young 
—  to  looking  on  from  the  outside.  In  the  day- 
time the  wagons  and  tents  presented  a  dreary  ap- 
pearance, sunk  in  snow,  the  dogs  shivering  be- 
tween the  wheels,  and  but  little  other  sign  of  life 
visible.  When  dusk  came  the  lights  were  lit,  and 
the  drummer  and  fifer  from  the  booth  of  tumblers 
were  sent  into  the  town  to  entice  an  audience. 
They  marched  quickly  through  the  nipping,  windy 
streets,  and  then  returned  with  two  or  three  score 
of  men,  women,  and  children,  plunging  through 
the  snow  or  mud  at  their  heavy  heels.  It  was 

214 


THRUMS 

Orpheus  fallen  from  his  high  estate.  What  a 
mockery  the  glare  of  the  lamps  and  the  capers  of 
the  mountebanks  were,  and  how  satisfied  were  we 
to  enjoy  it  all  without  going  inside.  I  hear  the 
"Waterloo  veterans"  still,  and  remember  their 
patriotic  outbursts: 

On  the  sixteenth  day  of  June,  brave  boys,  while  cannon  loud 

did  roar, 

We  being  short  of  cavalry  they  pressed  on  us  full  sore  ; 
But  British  steel  soon  made  them  yield,  though  our  numbers 

was  but  few, 
And  death  or  victory  was  the  word  on  the  plains  of  Waterloo. 

The  storm-stayed  shows  often  found  it  easier 
to  sink  to  rest  in  a  field  than  to  leave  it.  For 
weeks  at  a  time  they  were-  snowed  up,  sufficiently 
to  prevent  any  one  from  Thrums  going  near  them, 
though  not  sufficiently  to  keep  the  pallid  mum- 
mers indoors.  That  would  in  many  cases  have 
meant  starvation.  They  managed  to  fight  their 
way  through  storm  and  snowdrift  to  the  high  road 
and  thence  to  the  town,  where  they  got  meal  and 
sometimes  broth.  The  tumblers  and  jugglers  used 
occasionally  to  hire  an  out-house  in  the  town  at 
these  times — you  may  be  sure  they  did  not  pay 
for  it  in  advance  —  and  give  performances  there.  It 
is  a  curious  thing,  but  true,  that  our  herd-boys  and 
others  were  sometimes  struck  with  the  stage-fever. 
Thrums  lost  boys  to  the  showmen  even  in  winter. 

215 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

On  the  whole,  the  farmers  and  the  people  gener- 
ally were  wonderfully  long-suffering  with  these 
wanderers,  who  I  believe  were  more  honest  than 
was  to  be  expected.  They  stole,  certainly;  but 
seldom  did  they  steal  anything  more  valuable  than 
turnips.  Sam'l  Mann  himself  flushed  proudly 
over  the  effect  his  show  once  had  on  an  irate 
farmer.  The  farmer  appeared  in  the  encampment, 
whip  in  hand  and  furious.  They  must  get  off  his 
land  before  nightfall.  The  crafty  showman,  how- 
ever, prevailed  upon  him  to  take  a  look  at  the  acro- 
bats, and  he  enjoyed  the  performance  so  much 
that  he  offered  to  let  them  stay  until  the  end  of 
the  week.  Before  that  time  came  there  was  such 
a  fall  of  snow  that  departure  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  and  it  is  to  the  farmer's  credit  that  he  sent 
Sam'l  a  bag  of  meal  to  tide  him  and  his  actors 
over  the  storm. 

There  were  times  when  the  showmen  made  a 
tour  of  the  bothies,  where  they  slung  their  poles 
and  ropes  and  gave  their  poor  performances  to 
audiences  that  were  not  critical.  The  bothy 
being  strictly  the  "  man's  "  castle,  the  farmer  never 
interfered;  indeed,  he  was  sometimes  glad  to  see 
the  show.  Every  other  weaver  in  Thrums  used 
to  have  a  son  a  ploughman,  and  it  was  the  men 
from  the  bothies  who  filled  the  square  on  the 
rnuckly.  "  Hands  "  are  not  huddled  together  now- 
adays in  squalid  barns  more  like  cattle  than  men 

2l6 


THRUMS 

and  women,  but  bothies  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Thrums  are  not  yet  things  of  the  past.  Many  a 
ploughman  delves  his  way  to  and  from  them  still 
in  all  weathers,  when  the  snow  is  on  the  ground ; 
at  the  time  of  "hairst,"  and  when  the  turnip 
"  shaws  "  have  just  forced  themselves  through  the 
earth,  looking  like  straight  rows  of  green  needles. 
Here  is  a  picture  of  a  bothy  of  to-day  that  I 
visited  recently.  Over  the  door  there  is  a  water- 
spout that  has  given  way,  and  as  I  entered  I  got 
a  rush  of  rain  down  my  neck.  The  passage  was 
so  small  that  one  could  easily  have  stepped  from 
the  doorway  on  to  the  ladder  standing  against  the 
wall,  which  was  there  in  lieu  of  a  staircase.  "  Up- 
stairs "  was  a  mere  garret,  where  a  man  could  not 
stand  erect  even  in  the  centre.  It  was  entered  by 
a  square  hole  in  the  ceiling,  at  present  closed  by  a 
clap-door  in  no  way  dissimilar  to  the  trap-doors 
on  a  theatre  stage.  I  climbed  into  this  garret, 
which  is  at  present  used  as  a  store-room  for  agri- 
cultural odds  and  ends.  At  harvest-time,  however, 
it  is  inhabited  —  full  to  overflowing.  A  few  de- 
cades ago  as  many  as  fifty  labourers  engaged  for 
the  harvest  had  to  be  housed  in  the  farm  out-houses 
on  beds  of  straw.  There  was  no  help  for  it,  and 
men  and  women  had  to  congregate  in  these  barns 
together.  Up  as  early  as  five  in  the  morning, 
they  were  generally  dead  tired  by  night;  and, 
miserable  though  this  system  of  herding  them 

217 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

together  was,  they  took  it  like  stoics,  and  their 
very  number  served  as  a  moral  safeguard.  Now- 
adays the  harvest  is  gathered  in  so  quickly,  and 
machinery  does  so  much  that  used  to  be  done  by 
hand,  that  this  crowding  of  labourers  together, 
which  was  the  bothy  system  at  its  worst,  is  nothing 
like  what  it  was.  As  many  as  six  or  eight  men, 
however,  are  put  up  in  the  garret  referred  to  dur- 
ing "  hairst  "-time,  and  the  female  labourers  have 
to  make  the  best  of  it  in  the  barn.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  on  many  farms  the  two  sexes  have  still 
at  this  busy  time  to  herd  together  even  at  night. 
The  bothy  was  but  scantily  furnished,  though 
it  consisted  of  two  rooms.  In  the  one,  which  was 
used  almost  solely  as  a  sleeping  apartment,  there 
was  no  furniture  to  speak  of,  beyond  two  closet 
beds,  and  its  bumpy  earthen  floor  gave  it  a  cheer- 
less look.  The  other,  which  had  a  single  bed, 
was  floored  with  wood.  It  was  not  badly  lit  by 
two  very  small  windows  that  faced  each  other, 
and,  besides  several  stools,  there  was  a  long  form 
against  one  of  the  walls.  A  bright  fire  of  peat 
and  coal  —  nothing  in  the  world  makes  such  a 
cheerful  red  fire  as  this  combination  —  burned 
beneath  a  big  kettle  ("  boiler  "  they  called  it),  and 
there  was  a  **  press  "  or  cupboard  containing  a  fair 
assortment  of  cooking  utensils.  Of  these  some 
belonged  to  the  bothy,  while  others  were  the 
private  property  of  the  tenants.  A  tin  "pan" 

218 


THRUMS 

and  "  pitcher "  of  water  stood  near  the  door,  and 
the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  was  covered 
with  oilcloth. 

Four  men  and  a  boy  inhabited  this  bothy,  and 
the  rain  had  driven  them  all  indoors.  In  better 
weather  they  spend  the  leisure  of  the  evening  at 
the  game  of  quoits,  which  is  the  standard  pastime 
among  Scottish  ploughmen.  They  fish  the  neigh- 
bouring streams,  too,  and  have  burn-trout  for  sup- 
per several  times  a  week.  When  I  entered,  two 
of  them  were  sitting  by  the  fire  playing  draughts, 
or,  as  they  called  it,  *'  the  dam-brod."  The  dam- 
brod  is  the  Scottish  labourer's  billiards;  and  he 
often  attains  to  a  remarkable  proficiency  at  the 
game.  Wylie,  the  champion  draught-player,  was 
once  a  herd-boy ;  and  wonderful  stories  are  current 
in  all  bothies  of  the  times  when  his  master  called 
him  into  the  farm-parlour  to  show  his  skill.  A 
third  man,  who  seemed  the  elder  by  quite  twenty 
years,  was  at  the  window  reading  a  newspaper; 
and  I  got  no  shock  when  I  saw  that  it  was  the 
Saturday  Review,  which  he  and  a  labourer  on  an 
adjoining  farm  took  in  weekly  between  them. 
There  was  a  copy  of  a  local  newspaper  —  the  Peo- 
ple's Journal —  also  lying  about,  and  some  books, 
including  one  of  Darwin's.  These  were  all  the 
property  of  this  man,  however,  who  did  the  read- 
ing for  the  bothy. 

They  did  all  the  cooking  for  themselves,  living 
219 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

largely  on  milk.  In  the  old  days,  which  the  senior 
could  remember,  porridge  was  so  universally  the 
morning  meal  that  they  called  it  by  that  name  in- 
stead of  breakfast.  They  still  breakfast  on  por- 
ridge, but  often  take  tea  "above  it."  Generally 
milk  is  taken  with  the  porridge ;  but  "  porter  "  or 
stout  in  a  bowl  is  no  uncommon  substitute.  Pota- 
toes at  twelve  o'clock — seldom  "brose"  nowa- 
days—  are  the  staple  dinner  dish,  and  the  tinned 
meats  have  become  very  popular.  There  are 
bothies  where  each  man  makes  his  own  food;  but 
of  course  the  more  satisfactory  plan  is  for  them  to 
club  together.  Sometimes  they  get  their  food  in 
the  farm-kitchen;  but  this  is  only  when  there  are 
few  of  them  and  the  farmer  and  his  family  do  not 
think  it  beneath  them  to  dine  with  the  men.  Broth, 
too,  may  be  made  in  the  kitchen  and  sent  down  to 
the  bothy.  At  harvest-time  the  workers  take  their 
food  in  the  fields,  when  great  quantities  of  milk 
are  provided.  There  is  very  little  beer  drunk,  and 
whisky  is  only  consumed  in  privacy. 

Life  in  the  bothies  is  not,  I  should  say,  so  lonely 
as  life  at  the  schoolhouse,  for  the  hands  have  at 
least  each  other's  company.  The  hawker  visits 
them  frequently  still,  though  the  itinerant  tailor, 
once  a  familiar  figure,  has  almost  vanished.  Their 
great  place  of  congregating  is  still  some  country 
smiddy,  which  is  also  their  frequent  meeting-place 
when  bent  on  black-fishing.  The  flare  of  the 

22O 


THRUMS 

black-fisher's  torch  still  attracts  salmon  to  their 
death  in  the  rivers  near  Thrums;  and  you  may 
hear  in  the  glens  on  a  dark  night  the  rattle  of  the 
spears  on  the  wet  stones.  Twenty  or  thirty  years 
ago,  however,  the  sport  was  much  more  common. 
After  the  farmer  had  gone  to  bed,  some  half-dozen 
ploughmen  and  a  few  other  poachers  from  Thrums 
would  set  out  for  the  meeting-place. 

The  smithy  on  these  occasions  must  have  been 
a  weird  sight;  though  one  did  not  mark  that  at 
the  time.  The  poacher  crept  from  the  darkness 
into  the  glaring  smithy  light;  for  in  country  parts 
the  anvil  might  sometimes  be  heard  clanging  at  all 
hours  of  the  night.  As  a  rule,  every  face  was 
blackened;  and  it  was  this,  I  suppose,  rather  than 
the  fact  that  dark  nights  were  chosen  that  gave  the 
gangs  the  name  of  black-fishers.  Other  disguises 
were  resorted  to ;  one  of  the  commonest  being  to 
change  clothes  or  to  turn  your  corduroys  outside 
in.  The  country-folk  of  those  days  were  more  su- 
perstitious than  they  are  now,  and  it  did  not  take 
much  to  turn  the  black-fishers  back.  There  was 
not  a  barn  or  byre  in  the  district  that  had  not  its 
horseshoe  over  the  door.  Another  popular  device 
for  frightening  away  witches  and  fairies  was  to 
hang  bunches  of  garlic  about  the  farms.  I  have 
known  a  black-fishing  expedition  stopped  because 
a  "  yellow  yite,"  or  yellowhammer,  hovered  round 
the  gang  when  they  were  setting  out  Still  more 

221 


AULD  LIGHT   IDYLLS 

ominous  was  the  "  p£  at "  when  it  appeared  with 
one  or  three  companions.  An  old  rhyme  about 
this  bird  runs  —  "  One  is  joy,  two  is  grief,  three's  a 
bridal,  four  is  death."  Such  snatches  of  supersti- 
tion are  still  to  be  heard  amidst  the  gossip  of  a 
north-country  smithy. 

Each  black-fisher  brought  his  own  spear  and 
torch,  both  more  or  less  home-made.  The  spears 
were  in  many  cases  "gully-knives,"  fastened  to 
staves  with  twine  and  resin,  called  '*  rozet"  The 
torches  were  very  rough-and-ready  things  —  rope 
and  tar,  or  even  rotten  roots  dug  from  broken 
trees  —  in  fact,  anything  that  would  flare.  The 
black-fishers  seldom  journeyed  far  from  home,  con- 
fining themselves  to  the  rivers  within  a  radius  of 
three  or  four  miles.  There  were  many  reasons  for 
this :  one  of  them  being  that  the  hands  had  to  be 
at  their  work  on  the  farm  by  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning;  another,  that  so  they  poached  and  let 
poach.  Except  when  in  spate,  the  river  I  specially 
refer  to  offered  no  attractions  to  the  black-fish- 
ers. Heavy  rains,  however,  swell  it  much  more 
quickly  than  most  rivers  into  a  turbulent  rush  of 
water;  the  part  of  it  affected  by  the  black-fishers 
being  banked  in  with  rocks  that  prevent  the  water's 
spreading.  Above  these  rocks,  again,  are  heavy 
green  banks,  from  which  stunted  trees  grow  aslant 
across  the  river.  The  effect  is  fearsome  at  some 
points  where  the  trees  run  into  each  other,  as  it 

222 


THRUMS 

were,  from  opposite  banks.  However,  the  black- 
fishers  thought  nothing  of  these  things.  They 
took  a  turnip  lantern  with  them  —  that  is,  a  lan- 
tern hollowed  out  of  a  turnip,  with  a  piece  of  can- 
dle inside  —  but  no  lights  were  shown  on  the  road. 
Every  one  knew  his  way  to  the  river  blindfold; 
so  that  the  darker  the  night  the  better.  On  reach- 
ing the  water  there  was  a  pause.  One  or  two  of 
the  gang  climbed  the  banks  to  discover  if  any  bail- 
iffs were  on  the  watch ;  while  the  others  sat  down, 
and  with  the  help  of  the  turnip  lantern  "  busked  " 
their  spears;  in  other  words,  fastened  on  the  steel 
—  or,  it  might  be,  merely  'pieces  of  rusty  iron 
sharpened  into  a  point  at  home  —  to  the  staves. 
Some  had  them  busked  before  they  set  out,  but 
that  was  not  considered  prudent;  for  of  course 
there  was  always  a  risk  of  meeting  spoil-sports  on 
the  way,  to  whom  the  spears  would  tell  a  tale  that 
could  not  be  learned  from  ordinary  staves.  Never- 
theless little  time  was  lost.  Five  or  six  of  the 
gang  waded  into  the  water,  torch  in  one  hand  and 
spear  in  the  other;  and  the  object  now  was  to 
catch  some  salmon  with  the  least  possible  delay, 
and  hurry  away.  Windy  nights  were  good  for 
the  sport,  and  I  can  still  see  the  river  lit  up  with 
the  lumps  of  light  that  a  torch  makes  in  a  high 
wind.  The  torches,  of  course,  were  used  to  at- 
tract the  fish,  which  came  swimming  to  the  sheen, 
and  were  then  speared.  As  little  noise  as  possible 

223 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

was  made ;  but  though  the  men  bit  their  lips  in- 
stead of  crying  out  when  they  missed  their  fish, 
there  was  a  continuous  ring  of  their  weapons  on 
the  stones,  and  every  irrepressible  imprecation  was 
echoed  up  and  down  the  black  glen.  Two  or 
three  of  the  gang  were  told  off  to  land  the  salmon, 
and  they  had  to  work  smartly  and  deftly.  They 
kept  by  the  side  of  the  spearsman,  and  the  mo- 
ment he  struck  a  fish  they  grabbed  at  it  with  their 
hands.  When  the  spear  had  a  barb  there  was  less 
chance  of  the  fish's  being  lost ;  but  often  this  was 
not  the  case,  and  probably  not  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  the  salmon  speared  were  got  safely  to  the 
bank.  The  takes  of  course  varied;  sometimes, 
indeed,  the  black-fishers  returned  home  empty- 
handed. 

Encounters  with  the  bailiffs  were  not  infrequent, 
though  they  seldom  took  place  at  the  water's 
edge.  When  the  poachers  were  caught  in  the  act, 
and  had  their  blood  up  with  the  excitement  of  the 
sport,  they  were  ugly  customers.  Spears  were  used 
and  heads  were  broken.  Struggles  even  took  place 
in  the  water,  when  there  was  always  a  chance  of 
somebody's  being  drowned.  Where  the  bailiffs 
gave  the  black-fishers  an  opportunity  of  escaping 
without  a  fight  it  was  nearly  always  taken;  the 
booty  being  left  behind.  As  a  rule,  when  the 
"water-watchers,"  as  the  bailiffs  were  sometimes 
called,  had  an  inkling  of  what  was  to  take  place,  they 

224 


THRUMS 

reinforced  themselves  with  a  constable  or  two  and 
waited  on  the  road  to  catch  the  poachers  on  their 
way  home.  One  black-fisher,  a  noted  character, 
was  nicknamed  the  "  Deil  o'  Glen  Quharity."  He 
was  said  to  have  gone  to  the  houses  of  the  bailiffs 
and  offered  to  sell  them  the  fish  stolen  from  the 
streams  over  which  they  kept  guard.  The  "  Deil " 
was  never  imprisoned  —  partly,  perhaps,  because 
he  was  too  eccentric  to  be  taken  seriously. 


225 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  AULD  LIGHT   KIRK 

ONE  Sabbath  day  in  the  beginning  of  the  cen- 
tury the  Auld  Licht  minister  at  Thrums  walked 
out  of  his  battered,  ramshackle,  earthen-floored 
kirk  with  a  following  and  never  returned.  The 
last  words  he  uttered  in  it  were:  "Follow  me 
to  the  commonty,  all  you  persons  who  want  to 
hear  the  Word  of  God  properly  preached;  and 
James  Duphie  and  his  two  sons  will  answer  for 
this  on  the  Day  of  Judgment."  The  congregation, 
which  belonged  to  the  body  who  seceded  from 
the  Established  Church  a  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago,  had  split,  and  as  the  New  Lights  (now  the 
U.  P.'s)  were  in  the  majority,  the  Old  Lights,  with 
the  minister  at  their  head,  had  to  retire  to  the  com- 
monty (or  common)  and  hold  service  in  the  open 
air  until  they  had  saved  up  money  for  a  church. 
They  kept  possession,  however,  of  the  white 
manse  among  the  trees.  Their  kirk  has  but  a 
cluster  of  members  now,  most  of  them  old  and 
done,  but  each  is  equal  to  a  dozen  ordinary  church- 
goers, and  there  have  been  men  and  women  among 

226 


THE  AULD   LIGHT   KIRK 

them  on  whom  the  memory  loves  to  linger.  For 
forty  years  they  have  been  dying  out,  but  their 
cold,  stiff  pews  still  echo  the  Psalms  of  David,  and 
the  Auld  Licht  kirk  will  remain  open  so  long  as 
it  has  one  member  and  a  minister. 

The  church  stands  round  the  corner  from  the 
square,  with  only  a  large  door  to  distinguish  it 
from  the  other  building  in  the  short  street  Chil- 
dren who  want  to  do  a  brave  thing  hit  this  door 
with  their  fists,  when  there  is  no  one  near,  and 
then  run  away  scared.  The  door,  however,  is 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  a  white-haired  old  lady 
who,  not  so  long  ago,  used  to  march  out  of  the 
kirk  and  remain  on  the  pavement  until  the  psalm 
which  had  just  been  given  out  was  sung.  Of 
Thrums's  pavement  it  may  here  be  said  that  when 
you  come,  even  to  this  day,  to  a  level  slab  you 
feel  reluctant  to  leave  it  The  old  lady  was  Mis- 
tress (which  is  Miss)  Tibbie  McQuhatty,  and  she 
nearly  split  the  Auld  Licht  kirk  over  "  run  line." 
This  conspicuous  innovation  was  introduced  by  Mr. 
Dishart,  the  minister,  when  he  was  young  and  au- 
dacious. The  old,  reverent  custom  in  the  kirk  was 
for  the  precentor  to  read  out  the  psalm  a  line  at  a 
time.  Having  then  sung  that  line  he  read  out  the 
next  one,  led  the  singing  of  it,  and  so  worked  his 
way  on  to  line  three.  Where  run  line  holds,  how- 
ever, the  psalm  is  read  out  first,  and  forthwith  sung. 
This  is  not  only  a  flighty  way  of  doing  things,  which 

227 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

may  lead  to  greater  scandals,  but  has  its  practical 
disadvantages,  for  the  precentor  always  starts  sing- 
ing in  advance  of  the  congregation  (Auld  Lichts 
never  being  able  to  begin  to  do  anything  all  at 
once),  and,  increasing  the  distance  with  every  line, 
leaves  them  hopelessly  behind  at  the  finish.  Miss 
McQuhatty  protested  against  this  change,  as  meet- 
ing the  devil  halfway,  but  the  minister  carried  his 
point,  and  ever  after  that  she  rushed  ostentatiously 
from  the  church  the  moment  a  psalm  was  given 
out,  and  remained  behind  the  door  until  the  sing- 
ing was  finished,  when  she  returned,  with  a  rustle, 
to  her  seat.  Run  line  had  on  her  the  effect  of  the 
reading  of  the  Riot  Act.  Once  some  men,  capa- 
ble of  anything,  held  the  door  from  the  outside, 
and  the  congregation  heard  Tibbie  rampaging  in 
the  passage.  Bursting  into  the  kirk  she  called  the 
office-bearers  to  her  assistance,  whereupon  the  min- 
ister in  miniature  raised  his  voice  and  demanded 
the  why  and  wherefore  of  the  ungodly  disturbance. 
Great  was  the  hubbub,  but  the  door  was  fast,  and 
a  compromise  had  to  be  arrived  at.  The  old  lady 
consented  for  once  to  stand  in  the  passage,  but  not 
without  pressing  her  hands  to  her  ears.  You  may 
smile  at  Tibbie,  but  ah !  I  know  what  she  was  at 
a  sick  bedside.  I  have  seen  her  when  the  hard  look 
had  gone  from  her  eyes,  and  it  would  ill  become 
me  to  smile  too. 

As  with  all  the  churches  in  Thrums,  care  had 
228 


THE  AULD   LIGHT   KIRK 

been  taken  to  make  the  Auld  Licht  one  much  too 
large.  The  stair  to  the  "laft"  or  gallery,  which 
was  originally  little  more  than  a  ladder,  is  ready 
for  you  as  soon  as  you  enter  the  doorway,  but  it  is 
best  to  sit  in  the  body  of  the  kirk.  The  plate  for 
collections  is  inside  the  church,  so  that  the  whole 
congregation  can  give  a  guess  at  what  you  give. 
If  it  is  something  very  stingy  or  very  liberal,  all 
Thrums  knows  of  it  within  a  few  hours ;  mdeed, 
this  holds  good  of  all  the  churches,  especially  per- 
haps of  the  Free  one,  which  has  been  called  the 
bawbee  kirk,  because  so  many  halfpennies  find 
their  way  into  the  plate.  On  Saturday  nights  the 
Thrums  shops  are  besieged  for  coppers  by  house- 
wives of  all  denominations,  who  would  as  soon  think 
of  dropping  a  threepenny  bit  into  the  plate  as  of 
giving  nothing.  Tammy  Todd  had  a  curious  way 
of  tipping  his  penny  into  the  Auld  Licht  plate 
while  still  keeping  his  hand  to  his  side.  He  did  it 
much  as  a  boy  fires  a  marble,  and  there  was  quite 
a  talk  in  the  congregation  the  first  time  he  missed. 
A  devout  plan  was  to  carry  your  penny  in  your 
hand  all  the  way  to  church,  but  to  appear  to  take  it 
out  of  your  pocket  on  entering,  and  some  plumped 
it  down  noisily  like  men  paying  their  way.  I  be- 
lieve old  Snecky  Hobart,  who  was  a  canty  stock 
but  obstinate,  once  dropped  a  penny  into  the  plate 
and  took  out  a  halfpenny  as  change,  but  the  only 
untoward  thing  that  happened  to  the  plate  was 

229 


once  when  the  lassie  from  the  farm  of  Curly  Bog 
capsized  it  in  passing.  Mr.  Dishart,  who  was  al- 
ways a  ready  man,  introduced  something  into  his 
sermon  that  day  about  women's  dress,  which  every 
one  hoped  Chirsty  Lundy,  the  lassie  in  question, 
would  remember.  Nevertheless,  the  minister  some- 
times came  to  a  sudden  stop  himself  when  passing 
from  the  vestry  to  the  pulpit.  The  passage  being 
narrow,  his  rigging  would  catch  in  a  pew  as  he 
sailed  down  the  aisle.  Even  then,  however,  Mr. 
Dishart  remembered  that  he  was  not  as  other  men. 
White  is  not  a  religious  colour,  and  the  walls  of 
the  kirk  were  of  a  dull  grey.  A  cushion  was  al- 
lowed to  the  manse  pew,  but  merely  as  a  symbol 
of  office,  and  this  was  the  only  pew  in  the  church 
that  had  a  door.  It  was  and  is  the  pew  nearest 
to  the  pulpit  on  the  minister's  right,  and  one  day  it 
contained  a  bonnet  which  Mr.  Dishart's  predecessor 
preached  at  for  one  hour  and  ten  minutes.  From 
the  pulpit,  which  was  swaddled  in  black,  the  min- 
ister had  a  fine  sweep  of  all  the  congregation  ex- 
cept those  in  the  back  pews  downstairs,  who  were 
lost  in  the  shadow  of  the  laft.  Here  sat  Whinny 
Webster,  so  called  because,  having  an  inexplicable 
passion  against  them,  he  devoted  his  life  to  the  ex- 
termination of  whins.  Whinny  for  years  ate  pep- 
permint lozenges  with  impunity  in  his  back  seat, 
safe  in  the  certainty  that  the  minister,  however  much 
he  might  try,  could  not  possibly  see  him.  But  his 

230 


THE  AULD  LIGHT  KIRK 

day  came.  One  afternoon  the  kirk  smelt  of  pep- 
permints, and  Mr.  Dishart  could  rebuke  no  one,  for 
the  defaulter  was  not  in  sight.  Whinny's  cheek  was 
working  up  and  down  in  quiet  enjoyment  of  its 
lozenge,  when  he  started,  noticing  that  the  preach- 
ing had  stopped.  Then  he  heard  a  sepulchral 
voice  say  "  Charles  Webster ! "  Whinny's  eyes 
turned  to  the  pulpit,  only  part  of  which  was  visi- 
ble to  him,  and  to  his  horror  they  encountered  the 
minister's  head  coming  down  the  stairs.  This  took 
place  after  I  had  ceased  to  attend  the  Auld  Licht 
kirk  regularly ;  but  I  am  told  that  as  Whinny  gave 
one  wild  scream  the  peppermint  dropped  from  his 
mouth.  The  minister  had  got  him  by  leaning  over 
the  pulpit  door  until,  had  he  given  himself  only  an- 
other inch,  his  feet  would  have  gone  into  the  air. 
As  for  Whinny  he  became  a  Godfearing  man. 

The  most  uncanny  thing  about  the  kirk  was  the 
precentor's  box  beneath  the  pulpit  Three  Auld 
Licht  ministers  I  have  known,  but  I  can  only  con- 
ceive one  precentor.  Lang  Tammas's  box  was 
much  too  small  for  him.  Since  his  disappearance 
from  Thrums  I  believe  they  have  paid  him  the 
compliment  of  enlarging  it  for  a  smaller  man — no 
doubt  with  the  feeling  that  Tammas  alone  could 
look  like  a  Christian  in  it.  Like  the  whole  con- 
gregation, of  course,  he  had  to  stand  during  the 
prayers  —  the  first  of  which  averaged  half  an  hour 
in  length.  If  he  stood  erect  his  head  and  shoul- 

231 


AULD  LIGHT  IDYLLS 

ders  vanished  beneath  funereal  trappings,  when  he 
seemed  decapitated,  and  if  he  stretched  his  neck 
the  pulpit  tottered.  He  looked  like  the  pillar  on 
which  it  rested,  or  he  balanced  it  on  his  head  like 
a  baker's  tray.  Sometimes  he  leaned  forward  as 
reverently  as  he  could,  and  then,  with  his  long  lean 
arms  dangling  over  the  side  of  his  box,  he  might 
have  been  a  suit  of  "blacks"  hung  up  to  dry. 
Once  I  was  talking  with  Cree  Queery  in  a  sober, 
respectable  manner,  when  all  at  once  a  light  broke 
out  on  his  face.  I  asked  him  what  he  was  laugh- 
ing at,  and  he  said  it  was  at  Lang  Tammas.  He 
got  grave  again  when  I  asked  him  what  there  was 
in  Lang  Tammas  to  smile  at,  and  admitted  that  he 
could  not  tell  me.  However,  I  have  always  been 
of  opinion  that  the  thought  of  the  precentor  in  his 
box  gave  Cree  a  fleeting  sense  of  humour. 

Tammas  and  Hendry  Munn  were  the  two  paid 
officials  of  the  church,  Hendry  being  kirk-officer ; 
but  poverty  was  among  the  few  points  they  had  in 
common.  The  precentor  was  a  cobbler,  though 
he  never  knew  it,  shoemaker  being  the  name  in 
those  parts,  and  his  dwelling-room  was  also  his 
workshop.  There  he  sat  in  his  "  brot,"  or  apron, 
from  early  morning  to  far  on  to  midnight,  and 
contrived  to  make  his  six  or  eight  shillings  a  week. 
I  have  often  sat  with  him  in  the  darkness  that  his 
"cruizey"  lamp  could  not  pierce,  while  his  mut- 
terings  to  himself  of  "  ay,  ay,  yes,  umpha,  oh  ay, 

232 


THE  AULD   LIGHT   KIRK 

ay  man,"  came  as  regularly  and  monotonously 
as  the  tick  of  his  "  wag-at-the-wa' "  clock.  Hendry 
and  he  were  paid  no  fixed  sum  for  their  services 
in  the  Auld  Licht  kirk,  but  once  a  year  there  was 
a  collection  for  each  of  them,  and  so  they  jogged 
along.  Though  not  the  only  kirk-officer  of  my 
time  Hendry  made  the  most  lasting  impression. 
He  was,  I  think,  the  only  man  in  Thrums  who 
did  not  quake  when  the  minister  looked  at  him. 
A  wild  story,  never  authenticated,  says  that  Hendry 
once  offered  Mr.  Dishart  a  snuff  from  his  mull. 
In  the  streets  Lang  Tammas  was  more  stern  and 
dreaded  by  evildoers,  but  Hendry  had  first  place 
in  the  kirk.  One  of  his  duties  was  to  precede 
the  minister  from  the  session-house  to  the  pulpit 
and  open  the  door  for  him.  Having  shut  Mr. 
Dishart  in  he  strolled  away  to  his  seat.  When 
a  strange  minister  preached,  Hendry  was,  if  pos- 
sible, still  more  at  his  ease.  This  will  not  be 
believed,  but  I  have  seen  him  give  the  pulpit- 
door  on  these  occasions  a  fling-to  with  his  feet. 
However  ill  an  ordinary  member  of  the  congrega- 
tion might  become  in  the  kirk,  he  sat  on  till  the 
service  ended,  but  Hendry  would  wander  to  the 
door  and  shut  it  if  he  noticed  that  the  wind  was 
playing  irreverent  tricks  with  the  pages  of  Bibles, 
and  proof  could  still  be  brought  forward  that  he 
would  stop  deliberately  in  the  aisle  to  lift  up  a 
piece  of  paper,  say,  that  had  floated  there.  After 

233 


AULD  LIGHT   IDYLLS 

the  first  psalm  had  been  sung  it  was  Hendry's 
part  to  lift  up  the  plate  and  carry  its  tinkling  con- 
tents to  the  session-house.  On  the  greatest  occa- 
sions he  remained  so  calm,  so  indifferent,  so  ex- 
pressionless, that  he  might  have  been  present  the 
night  before  at  a  rehearsal. 

When  there  was  preaching  at  night  the  church 
was  lit  by  tallow  candles,  which  also  gave  out  all 
the  artificial  heat  provided.  Two  candles  stood 
on  each  side  of  the  pulpit,  and  others  were  scattered 
over  the  church,  some  of  them  fixed  into  holes 
on  rough  brackets,  and  some  merely  sticking  in 
their  own  grease  on  the  pews.  Hendry  superin- 
tended the  lighting  of  the  candles,  and  frequently 
hobbled  through  the  church  to  snuff  them.  Mr. 
Dishart  was  a  man  who  could  do  anything  except 
snuff  a  candle,  but  when  he  stopped  in  his  sermon 
to  do  that  he  as  often  as  not  knocked  the  candle 
over.  In  vain  he  sought  to  refix  it  in  its  proper 
place,  and  then  all  eyes  turned  to  Hendry.  As 
coolly  as  though  he  were  in  a  public  hall  or  place 
of  entertainment,  the  kirk-officer  arose  and,  mount- 
ing the  stair,  took  the  candle  from  the  minister's  re- 
luctant hands  and  put  it  right.  Then  he  returned 
to  his  seat,  not  apparently  puffed  up,  yet  perhaps 
satisfied  with  himself;  while  Mr.  Dishart,  glaring 
after  him  to  see  if  he  was  carrying  his  head  high, 
resumed  his  wordy  way. 

Never  was  there  a  man  more  uncomfortably 

234 


THE  AULD  LIGHT  KIRK 

loved  than  Mr.  Dishart.  Easie  Haggart,  his  maid- 
servant, reproved  him  at  the  breakfast-table.  Lang 
Tammas  and  Sam'l  Mealmaker  crouched  for  five 
successive  Sabbath  nights  on  his  manse  wall  to 
catch  him  smoking  (and  got  him).  Old  wives 
grumbled  by  their  hearths  when  he  did  not  look 
in  to  despair  of  their  salvation.  He  told  the 
maidens  of  his  congregation  not  to  make  an  idol 
of  him.  His  session  saw  him  (from  behind  a  hay- 
stack) in  conversation  with  a  strange  woman,  and 
asked  grimly  if  he  remembered  that  he  had  a 
wife.  Twenty  were  his  years  when  he  came  to 
Thrums,  and  on  the  very  first  Sabbath  he  knocked 
a  board  out  of  the  pulpit.  Before  beginning  his 
trial  ser-mon  he  handed  down  the  big  Bible  to  the 
precentor,  to  give  his  arms  freer  swing.  The  con- 
gregation, trembling  with  exhilaration,  probed  his 
meaning.  Not  a  square  inch  of  paper,  they  saw, 
could  be  concealed  there.  Mr.  Dishart  had 
scarcely  any  hope  for  the  Auld  Lichts;  he  had 
none  for  any  other  denomination.  Davit  Lunan 
got  behind  his  handkerchief  to  think  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  the  minister  was  on  him  like  a  tiger. 
The  call  was  unanimous.  Davit  proposed  him. 
Every  few  years,  as  one  might  say,  the  Auld 
Licht  kirk  gave  way  and  buried  its  minister.  The 
congregation  turned  their  empty  pockets  inside 
out,  and  the  minister  departed  in  a  farmer's  cart. 
The  scene  was  not  an  amusing  one  to  those  who 

235 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

looked  on  at  it.  To  the  Auld  Lichts  was  then  the 
humiliation  of  seeing  their  pulpit  "  supplied  "  on 
alternate  Sabbaths  by  itinerant  probationers  or 
stickit  ministers.  When  they  were  not  starving 
themselves  to  support  a  pastor  the  Auld  Lichts 
were  saving  up  for  a  stipend.  They  retired  with 
compressed  lips  to  their  looms,  and  weaved  and 
weaved  till  they  weaved  another  minister.  With- 
out the  grief  of  parting  with  one  minister  there 
could  not  have  been  the  transport  of  choosing  an- 
other. To  have  had  a  pastor  always  might  have 
made  them  vainglorious. 

They  were  seldom  longer  than  twelve  months 
in  making  a  selection,  and  in  their  haste  they  would 
have  passed  over  Mr.  Dishart  and  mated  with  a 
monster.  Many  years  have  elapsed  since  Provi- 
dence flung  Mr.  Watts  out  of  the  Auld  Licht  kirk. 
Mr.  Watts  was  a  probationer  who  was  tried  before 
Mr.  Dishart,  and,  though  not  so  young  as  might 
have  been  wished,  he  found  favour  in  many  eyes. 
'*  Sluggard  in  the  laft,  awake ! "  he  cried  to  Bell 
Whamond,  who  had  forgotten  herself,  and  it  was 
felt  that  there  must  be  good  stuffin  him.  A  breeze 
from  Heaven  exposed  him  on  Communion  Sab- 
bath. 

On  the  evening  of  this  solemn  day  the  door  of 
the  Auld  Licht  kirk  was  sometimes  locked,  and  the 
congregation  repaired,  Bible  in  hand,  to  the  com- 
monty.  They  had  a  right  to  this  common  on  the 

236 


THE  AULD  LIGHT  KIRK 

Communion  Sabbath,  but  only  took  advantage  of 
it  when  it  was  believed  that  more  persons  intended 
witnessing  the  evening  service  than  the  kirk  would 
hold.  On  this  day  the  attendance  was  always  very 
great. 

It  was  the  Covenanters  come  back  to  life.  To 
the  summit  of  the  slope  a  wooden  box  was  slowly 
hurled  by  Hendry  Munn  and  others,  and  round 
this  the  congregation  quietly  grouped  to  the  tinkle 
of  the  cracked  Auld  Licht  bell.  With  slow  ma- 
jestic tread  the  session  advanced  up  the  steep  com- 
mon with  the  little  minister  in  their  midst.  He 
had  the  people  in  his  hands  now,  and  the  more  he 
squeezed  them  the  better  they  were  pleased.  The 
travelling  pulpit  consisted  of  two  compartments, 
the  one  for  the  minister  and  the  other  for  Lang 
Tammas,  but  no  Auld  Licht  thought  that  it  looked 
like  a  Punch  and  Judy  puppet  show.  This  service 
on  the  common  was  known  as  the  "tent  preach- 
ing," owing  to  a  tent's  being  frequently  used  in- 
stead of  the  box. 

Mr.  Watts  was  conducting  the  service  on  the 
commonty.  It  was  a  fine,  still  summer  evening, 
and  loud  above  the  whisper  of  the  burn  from  which 
the  common  climbs,  and  the  laboured  "  pechs  "  of 
the  listeners  rose  the  preacher's  voice.  The  Auld 
Lichts  in  their  rusty  blacks  (they  must  have  been  a 
more  artistic  sight  in  the  olden  days  of  blue  bonnets 
and  knee-breeches)  nodded  their  heads  in  sharp  ap- 

237 


AULD  LIGHT   IDYLLS 

proval,  for  though  they  could  swoop  down  on  a 
heretic  like  an  eagle  on  carrion,  they  scented  no 
prey.  Even  Lang  Tammas,  on  whose  nose  a  drop 
of  water  gathered  when  he  was  in  his  greatest  fettle, 
thought  that  all  was  fair  and  above-board.  Sud- 
denly a  rush  of  wind  tore  up  the  common,  and 
ran  straight  at  the  pulpit.  It  formed  in  a  sieve, 
and  passed  over  the  heads  of  the  congregation,  who 
felt  it  as  a  fan,  and  looked  up  in  awe.  Lang  Tam- 
mas, feeling  himself  all  at  once  grow  clammy,  dis- 
tinctly heard  the  leaves  of  the  pulpit  Bible  shiver. 
Mr.  Watts's  hands,  outstretched  to  prevent  a  catas- 
trophe, were  blown  against  his  side,  and  then  some 
twenty  sheets  of  closely-written  paper  floated  into 
the  air.  There  was  a  horrible,  dead  silence.  The 
burn  was  roaring  now.  The  minister,  if  such  he 
can  be  called,  shrunk  back  in  his  box,  and,  as  if 
they  had  seen  it  printed  in  letters  of  fire  on  the 
heavens,  the  congregation  realized  that  Mr.  Watts, 
whom  they  had  been  on  the  point  of  calling,  read 
his  sermon.  He  wrote  it  out  on  pages  the  exact 
size  of  those  in  the  Bible,  and  did  not  scruple  to 
fasten  these  into  the  Holy  Book  itself.  At  theatres 
a  sullen  thunder  of  angry  voices  behind  the  scene 
represents  a  crowd  in  a  rage,  and  such  a  low,  long- 
drawn  howl  swept  the  common  when  Mr.  Watts 
was  found  out.  To  follow  a  pastor  who  "  read  " 
seemed  to  the  Auld  Lichts  like  claiming  heaven  on 
false  pretences.  In  ten  minutes  the  session  alone, 

238 


THE  AULD  LIGHT  KIRK 

with  Lang  Tammas  and  Hendry,  were  on  the  com- 
mon. They  were  watched  by  many  from  afar  off, 
and  (when  one  comes  to  think  of  it  now)  looked  a 
little  curious  jumping,  like  trout  at  flies,  at  the 
damning  papers  still  fluttering  in  the  air.  The  min- 
ister was  never  seen  in  our  parts  again,  but  he  is  still 
remembered  as  "  Paper  Watts." 

Mr.  Dishart  in  the  pulpit  was  the  reward  of  his 
upbringing.  At  ten  he  had  entered  the  university. 
Before  he  was  in  his  teens  he  was  practising  the  art 
of  gesticulation  in  his  father's  gallery  pew.  From 
distant  congregations  people  came  to  marvel  at 
him.  He  was  never  more  than  comparatively 
young.  So  long  as  the  pulpit  trappings  of  the 
kirk  at  Thrums  lasted  he  could  be  seen,  once  he 
was  fairly  under  weigh  with  his  sermon,  but  dimly 
in  a  cloud  of  dust.  He  introduced  headaches. 
In  a  grand  transport  of  enthusiasm  he  once  flung 
his  arms  over  the  pulpit  and  caught  Lang  Tammas 
on  the  forehead.  Leaning  forward,  with  his  chest 
on  the  cushions,  he  would  pommel  the  Evil  One 
with  both  hands,  and  then,  whirling  round  to  the 
left,  shake  his  fist  at  Bell  Whamoncf  s  neckerchief. 
With  a  sudden  jump  he  would  fix  Pete  Todd's 
youngest  boy  catching  flies  at  the  laft  window. 
Stiffening  unexpectedly,  he  would  leap  three  times 
in  the  air,  and  then  gather  himself  in  a  corner  for  a 
fearsome  spring.  When  he  wept  he  seemed  to  be 
laughing,  and  he  laughed  in  a  paroxysm  of  tears. 

239 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

He  tried  to  tear  the  devil  out  of  the  pulpit  rails. 
When  he  was  not  a  teetotum  he  was  a  wind- 
mill. His  pump  position  was  the  most  appall- 
ing. Then  he  glared  motionless  at  his  admiring 
listeners,  as  if  he  had  fallen  into  a  trance  with  his 
arm  upraised.  The  hurricane  broke  next  moment. 
Nanny  Sutie  bore  up  under  the  shadow  of  the 
windmill  —  which  would  have  been  heavier  had 
Auld  Licht  ministers  worn  gowns  —  but  the  pump 
affected  her  to  tears.  She  was  stone-deaf. 

For  the  first  year  or  more  of  his  ministry  an 
Auld  Licht  minister  was  a  mouse  among  cats. 
Both  in  the  pulpit  and  out  of  it  they  watched 
for  unsound  doctrine,  and  when  he  strayed  they 
took  him  by  the  neck.  Mr.  Dishart,  however, 
had  been  brought  up  in  the  true  way,  and  seldom 
gave  his  people  a  chance.  In  time,  it  may  be  said, 
they  grew  despondent,  and  settled  in  their  uncom- 
fortable pews  with  all  suspicion  of  lurking  heresy 
allayed.  It  was  only  on  such  Sabbaths  as  Mn 
Dishart  changed  pulpits  with  another  minister  that 
they  cocked  their  ears  and  leant  forward  eagerly 
to  snap  the  preacher  up. 

Mr.  Dishart  had  his  trials.  There  was  the  split  in 
the  kirk,  too,  that  comes  once  at  least  to  every  Auld 
Licht  minister.  He  was  long  in  marrying.  The 
congregation  were  thinking  of  approaching  him, 
through  the  medium  of  his  servant,  Easie  Hag- 
gart,  on  the  subject  of  matrimony ;  for  a  bachelor 

240 


THE  AULD   LIGHT   KIRK 

coming  on  for  twenty-two,  with  an  income  of 
eighty  pounds  per  annum,  seemed  an  anomaly, 
when  one  day  he  took  the  canal  for  Edinburgh  and 
returned  with  his  bride.  His  people  nodded  their 
heads,  but  said  nothing  to  the  minister.  If  he  did 
not  choose  to  take  them  into  his  confidence,  it  was 
no  affair  of  theirs.  That  there  was  something 
queer  about  the  marriage,  however,  seemed  cer- 
tain. Sandy  Whamond,  who  was  a  soured  man 
after  losing  his  eldership,  said  that  he  believed  she 
had  been  an  "Englishy" —  in  other  words,  had 
belonged  to  the  English  Church;  but  it  is  not 
probable  that  Mr.  Dishart  would  have  gone  the 
length  of  that.  The  secret  is  buried  in  his  grave. 
Easie  Haggart  jagged  the  minister  sorely.  She 
grew  loquacious  with  years,  and  when  he  had  com- 
pany would  stand  at  the  door  joining  in  the  con- 
versation. If  the  company  was  another  minister, 
she  would  take  a  chair  and  discuss  Mr.  Dishart's 
infirmities  with  him.  The  Auld  Lichts  loved  their 
^inister,  but  they  saw  even  more  clearly  than  him- 
self the  necessity  for  his  humiliation.  His  wife 
made  all  her  children's  clothes,  but  Sanders  Go\r 
complained  that  she  looked  too  like  their  sister. 
In  one  week  three  of  the  children  died,  and  on 
the  Sabbath  following  it  rained.  Mr.  Dishart 
preached,  twice  breaking  down  altogether  and  gap- 
ing strangely  round  the  kirk  (there  was  no  dust 
flying  that  day),  and  spoke  of  the  rain  as  angels' 

241 


AULD  LIGHT   IDYLLS 

tears  for  three  little  girls.  The  Auld  Lichts  let  it 
pass,  but,  as  Lang  Tammas  said  in  private  (for,  of 
course,  the  thing  was  much  discussed  at  the  loorus), 
if  you  materialize  angels  in  that  way,  where  are 
you  going  to  stop  *? 

It  was  on  the  Fast  Days  that  the  Auld  Licht 
kirk  showed  what  it  was  capable  o£  and,  so  to 
speak,  left  all  the  other  churches  in  Thrums  far 
behind.  The  Fast  came  round  once  every  sum- 
mer, beginning  on  a  Thursday,  when  all  the  looms 
were  hushed,  and  two  services  were  held  in  the 
kirk  of  about  three  hours'  length  each.  A  min- 
ister from  another  town  assisted  at  these  times,  and 
when  the  service  ended  the  members  filed  in  at  one 
door  and  out  at  another,  passing  on  their  way  Mr. 
Dishart  and  his  elders,  who  dispensed  "  tokens  "  at 
the  foot  of  the  pulpit.  Without  a  token,  which 
was  a  metal  lozenge,  no  one  could  take  the  sacra- 
ment on  the  coming  Sabbath,  and  many  a  mem- 
ber has  Mr.  Dishart  made  miserable  by  refusing 
him  his  token  for  gathering  wild  flowers,  say,  on  a 
Lord's  Day  (as  testified  to  by  another  member). 
Women  were  lost  who  cooked  dinners  on  the  Sab- 
bath, or  took  to  coloured  ribbons,  or  absented 
themselves  from  church  without  sufficient  cause. 
On  the  Fast  Day  fists  were  shaken  at  Mr.  Dishart 
as  he  walked  sternly  homewards,  but  he  was  undis- 
mayed. Next  day  there  were  no  services  in  the 
kirk,  for  Auld  Lichts  could  not  afford  many  holi- 

24.2 


THE  AULD  LIGHT   KIRK 

days,  but  they  weaved  solemnly,  with  Saturday 
and  the  Sabbath  and  Monday  to  think  of.  On 
Saturday  service  began  at  two  and  lasted  until 
nearly  seven.  Two  sermons  were  preached,  but 
there  was  no  interval.  The  sacrament  was  dis- 
pensed on  the  Sabbath.  Nowadays  the  "  tables  " 
in  the  Auld  Licht  kirk  are  soon  "  served,"  for  the 
attendance  has  decayed,  and  most  of  the  pews  in  the 
body  of  the  church  are  made  use  of.  In  the  days 
of  which  I  speak,  however,  the  front  pews  alone 
were  hung  with  white,  and  it  was  in  them  only 
that  the  sacrament  was  administered.  As  many 
members  as  could  get  into  them  delivered  up  their 
tokens  and  took  the  first  table.  Then  they  made 
room  for  others,  who  sat  in  their  pews  awaiting 
their  turn.  What  with  tables,  the  preaching,  and 
unusually  long  prayers,  the  service  lasted  from 
eleven  to  six.  At  half-past  six  a  two  hours'  ser- 
vice began,  either  in  the  kirk  or  on  the  common, 
from  which  no  one  who  thought  much  about  his 
immortal  soul  would  have  dared  (or  cared)  to  ab- 
sent himself.  A  four  hours'  service  on  the  Mon- 
day, which,  like  that  of  the  Saturday,  consisted  of 
two  services  in  one,  but  began  at  eleven  instead  of 
two,  completed  the  programme. 

On  those  days,  if  you  were  a  poor  creature  and 
wanted  to  acknowledge  it,  you  could  leave  the 
church  for  a  few  minutes  and  return  to  it,  but  the 
creditable  thing  was  to  sit  on.  Even  among  the 

243 


AULD   LICHT   IDYLLS 

children  there  was  a  keen  competition,  fostered  by 
their  parents,  to  sit  each  other  out,  and  be  in  at  the 
death. 

The  other  Thrums  kirks  held  the  sacrament  at 
the  same  time,  but  not  with  the  same  vehemence. 
As  far  north  from  the  schoolhouse  as  Thrums  is 
south  of  it,  nestles  the  little  village  of  Quharity, 
and  there  the  Fast  Day  was  not  a  day  of  fasting. 
In  most  cases  the  people  had  to  go  many  miles  to 
church.  They  drove  or  rode  (two  on  a  horse),  or 
walked  in  from  other  glens.  Without  "  the  tents," 
therefore,  the  congregation,  with  a  long  day  before 
them,  would  have  been  badly  off.  Sometimes  one 
tent  sufficed;  at  other  times  rival  publicans  were 
on  the  ground.  The  tents  were  those  in  use  at  the 
feeing  and  other  markets,  and  you  could  get  any- 
thing inside  them,  from  broth  made  in  a  "  boiler  " 
to  the  fieriest  whisky.  They  were  planted  just  out- 
side the  kirk-gate  —  long,  low  tents  of  dirty  white 
canvas  —  so  that  when  passing  into  the  church  or 
out  of  it  you  inhaled  their  odours.  The  congre- 
gation emerged  austerely  from  the  church,  shaking 
their  heads  solemnly  over  the  minister's  remarks, 
and  their  feet  carried  them  into  the  tent.  There 
was  no  mirth,  no  unseemly  revelry,  but  there  was 
a  great  deal  of  hard  drinking.  Eventually  the 
tents  were  done  away  with,  but  not  until  the  ser- 
vices on  the  Fast  Days  were  shortened.  The  Auld 
Licht  ministers  were  the  only  ones  who  preached 

244 


THE  AULD   LIGHT   KIRK 

against  the  tents  with  any  heart,  and  since  the  old 
dominie,  my  predecessor  at  the  schoolhouse,  died, 
there  has  not  been  an  Auld  Licht  permanently 
resident  in  the  glen  of  Quharity. 

Perhaps  nothing  took  it  out  of  the  Auld  Licht 
males  so  much  as  a  christening.  Then  alone  they 
showed  symptoms  of  nervousness,  more  especially 
after  the  remarkable  baptism  of  Eppie  Whamond. 
I  could  tell  of  several  scandals  in  connection  with 
the  kirk.  There  was,  for  instance,  the  time  when 
Easie  Haggart  saved  the  minister.  In  a  fit  of  tem- 
porary mental  derangement  the  misguided  man 
had  one  Sabbath  day,  despite  the  entreaties  of  his 
affrighted  spouse,  called  at  the  post-office,  and  was 
on  the  point  of  reading  the  letter  there  received, 
when  Easie,  who  had  slipped  on  her  bonnet  and 
followed  him,  snatched  the  secular  thing  from  his 
hands.  There  was  the  story  that  ran  like  fire 
through  Thrums  and  crushed  an  innocent  man  to 
the  effect  that  Pete  Todd  had  been  in  an  Edinburgh 
theatre  countenancing  the  play-actors.  Something 
could  be  made,  too,  of  the  retribution  that  came  to 
Chairlie  Ramsay,  who  woke  in  his  pew  to  discover 
that  its  other  occupant,  his  little  son  Jamie,  was 
standing  on  the  seat  divesting  himself  of  his  clothes, 
in  presence  of  a  horrified  congregation.  Jamie  had 
begun  stealthily,  and  had  very  little  on  when 
Chairlie  seized  him.  But  having  my  choice  of 
scandals  I  prefer  the  christening  one — the  unique 

245 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

case  of  Eppie  Whamond,  who  was  born  late  on 
Saturday  night  and  baptized  in  the  kirk  on  the 
following  forenoon. 

To  the  casual  observer  the  Auld  Licht  always 
looked  as  if  he  were  returning  from  burying  a 
near  relative.  Yet  when  I  met  him  hobbling 
down  the  street,  preternaturally  grave  and  occupied, 
experience  taught  me  that  he  was  preparing  for  a 
christening.  How  the  minister  would  have  borne 
himself  in  the  event  of  a  member  of  his  congrega- 
tion's wanting  the  baptism  to  take  place  at  home 
it  is  not  easy  to  say ;  but  I  shudder  to  think  of 
the  public  prayers  for  the  parents  that  would 
certainly  have  followed.  The  child  was  carried 
to  the  kirk  through  rain,  or  snow,  or  sleet,  or 
wind,  the  father  took  his  seat  alone  in  the  front 
pew,  under  the  minister's  eye,  and  the  service  was 
prolonged  far  on  into  the  afternoon.  But  though 
the  references  in  the  sermon  to  that  unhappy  ob- 
ject of  interest  in  the  front  pew  were  many  and 
pointed,  his  time  had  not  really  come  until  the 
minister  signed  to  him  to  advance  as  far  as  the 
second  step  of  the  pulpit  stairs.  The  nervous  fa- 
ther clenched  the  railing  in  a  daze,  and  cowered 
before  the  ministerial  heckling.  From  warning 
the  minister  passed  to  exhortation,  from  exhorta- 
tion to  admonition,  from  admonition  to  searching 
questioning,  from  questioning  to  prayer  and  wail- 
ing. When  the  father  glanced  up,  there  was  the 

246 


THE   AULD   LIGHT   KIRK 

radiant  boy  in  the  pulpit  looking  as  if  he  would 
like  to  jump  down  his  throat.  If  he  hung  his 
head  the  minister  would  ask,  with  a  groan,  whether 
he  was  unprepared;  and  the  whole  congregation 
would  sigh  out  the  response  that  Mr.  Dishart  had 
hit  it.  When  he  replied  audibly  to  the  minister's 
uncomfortable  questions,  a  pained  look  at  his  flip- 
pancy travelled  from  the  pulpit  all  round  the 
pews ;  and  when  he  only  bowed  his  head  in  ans- 
wer, the  minister  paused  sternly,  and  the  congre- 
gation wondered  what  the  man  meant.  Little 
wonder  that  Davie  Haggart  took  to  drinking 
when  his  turn  came  for  occupying  that  front  pew. 

If  wee  Eppie  Whamond's  birth  had  been  de- 
ferred until  the  beginning  of  the  week,  or  humil- 
ity had  shown  more  prominently  among  her  mo- 
ther's virtues,  the  kirk  would  have  been  saved  a 
painful  scandal,  and  Sandy  Whamond  might  have 
retained  his  eldership.  Yet  it  was  a  foolish  but 
wifely  pride  in  her  husband's  official  position  that 
turned  Bell  Dundas's  head  —  a  wild  ambition  to 
beat  all  baptismal  record. 

Among  the  wives  she  was  esteemed  a  poor  body 
whose  infant  did  not  see  the  inside  of  the  kirk 
within  a  fortnight  of  its  birth.  Forty  years  ago  it 
was  an  accepted  superstition  in  Thrums  that  the 
ghosts  of  children  who  had  died  before  they  were 
baptized  went  wailing  and  wringing  their  hands 
round  the  kirkyard  at  nights,  and  that  they  would 

247 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

continue  to  do  this  until  the  crack  of  doom. 
When  the  Auld  Licht  children  grew  up,  too,  they 
crowed  over  those  of  their  fellows  whose  christen- 
ing had  been  deferred  until  a  comparatively  late 
date,  and  the  mothers  who  had  needlessly  missed 
a  Sabbath  for  long  afterwards  hung  their  heads. 
That  was  a  good  and  creditable  birth  which  took 
place  early  in  the  week,  thus  allowing  time  for 
suitable  christening  preparations ;  while  to  be  born 
on  a  Friday  or  a  Saturday  was  to  humiliate  your 
parents,  besides  being  an  extremely  ominous  be- 
ginning for  yourself.  Without  seeking  to  vindi- 
cate Bell  Dundas's  behaviour,  I  may  note,  as  an 
act  of  ordinary  fairness,  that  being  the  leading  el- 
der's wife,  she  was  sorely  tempted.  Eppie  made 
her  appearance  at  9.45  on  a  Saturday  night 

In  the  hurry  and  scurry  that  ensued,  Sandy  es- 
caped sadly  to  the  square.  His  infant  would  be 
baptized  eight  days  old,  one  of  the  longest-de- 
ferred christenings  of  the  year.  Sandy  was  shiver- 
ing under  the  clock  when  I  met  him  accidentally, 
and  took  him  home.  But  by  that  time  the  harm 
had  been  done.  Several  of  the  congregation  had 
been  roused  from  their  beds  to  hear  his  lamenta- 
tions, of  whom  the  men  sympathized  with  him, 
while  the  wives  triumphed  austerely  over  Bell 
Dundas.  As  I  wrung  poor  Sandy's  hand,  I  hardly 
noticed  that  a  bright  light  showed  distinctly  be- 
tween the  shutters  of  his  kitchen-window ;  but  the 

248 


THE  AULD   LIGHT   KIRK 

elder  himself  turned  pale  and  breathed  quickly. 
It  was  then  fourteen  minutes  past  twelve. 

My  heart  sank  within  me  on  the  following  fore- 
noon, when  Sandy  Whamond  walked,  with  a  queer 
twitching  face,  into  the  front  pew  under  a  glare  of 
eyes  from  the  body  of  the  kirk  and  the  laft.  An 
amazed  buzz  went  round  the  church,  followed  by 
a  pursing  up  of  lips  and  hurried  whisperings. 
Evidently  Sandy  had  been  driven  to  it  against  his 
own  judgment.  The  scene  is  still  vivid  before 
me :  the  minister  suspecting  no  guile,  and  omit- 
ting the  admonitory  stage  out  of  compliment  to 
the  elder's  standing;  Sandy's  ghastly  face;  the 
proud  godmother  (aged  twelve)  with  the  squal- 
ling baby  in  her  arms ;  the  horror  of  the  congrega- 
tion to  a  man  and  woman.  A  slate  fell  from  San- 
dy's house  even  as  he  held  up  the  babe  to  the 
minister  to  receive  a  "  droukin' "  of  water,  and 
Eppie  cried  so  vigorously  that  her  shamed  godmo- 
ther had  to  rush  with  her  to  the  vestry.  Now 
things  are  not  as  they  should  be  when  an  Auld 
Licht  infant  does  not  quietly  sit  out  her  first 
service. 

Bell  tried  for  a  time  to  carry  her  head  high ;  but 
Sandy  ceased  to  whistle  at  his  loom,  and  the 
scandal  was  a  rolling  stone  that  soon  passed  over 
him.  Briefly  it  amounted  to  this:  that  a  bairn 
born  within  two  hours  of  midnight  on  Saturday 
could  not  have  been  ready  for  christening  at  the 

249 


AULD  LIGHT   IDYLLS 

kirk  next  day  without  the  breaking  of  the  Sab- 
bath. Had  the  secret  of  the  nocturnal  light  been 
mine  alone  all  might  have  been  well;  but  Betsy 
Munn's  evidence  was  irrefutable.  Great  had  been 
Bell's  cunning,  but  Betsy  had  outwitted  her.  Pas- 
sing the  house  on  the  eventful  night,  Betsy  had 
observed  Marget  Dundas,  Bell's  sister,  open  the 
door  and  creep  cautiously  to  the  window,  the 
chinks  in  the  outside  shutters  of  which  she  cun- 
ningly closed  up  with  "  tow."  As  in  a  flash  the 
disgusted  Betsy  saw  what  Bell  was  up  to,  and,  re- 
moving the  tow,  planted  herself  behind  the  dilapi- 
dated dyke  opposite,  and  awaited  events.  Ques- 
tioned at  a  special  meeting  of  the  office-bearers  in 
the  vestry,  she  admitted  that  the  lamp  was  extin- 
guished soon  after  twelve  o'clock,  though  the  fire 
burned  brightly  all  night.  There  had  been  un- 
necessary feasting  during  the  night,  and  six  eggs 
were  consumed  before  breakfast-time.  Asked  how 
she  knew  this,  she  admitted  having  counted  the 
egg-shells  that  Marget  had  thrown  out  of  doors  in 
the  morning.  This,  with  the  testimony  of  the 
persons  from  whom  Sandy  had  sought  condolence 
on  the  Saturday  night,  was  the  case  for  the  prose- 
cution. For  the  defence,  Bell  maintained  that  all 
preparations  stopped  when  the  clock  struck  twelve, 
and  even  hinted  that  the  bairn  had^been  born  on 
Saturday  afternoon.  But  Sandy  knew  that  he  and 
his  had  got  a  fall.  In  the  forenoon  of  the  follow- 

250 


THE  AULD   LIGHT   KIRK 

ing  Sabbath  the  minister  preached  from  the  text, 
"  Be  sure  your  sin  will  find  you  out ; "  and  in  the 
afternoon  from  "  Pride  goeth  before  a  fall."  He 
was  grand.  In  the  evening  Sandy  tendered  his  re- 
signation of  office,  which  was  at  once  accepted. 
Wobs  were  behindhand  for  a  week  owing  to  the 
length  of  the  prayers  offered  up  for  Bell;  and 
Lang  Tammas  ruled  in  Sandy's  stead. 


251 


CHAPTER  IV 

LADS   AND   LASSES 

WITH  the  severe  Auld  Lichts  the  Sabbath  began 
at  six  o'clock  on  Saturday  evening.  By  that  time 
the  gleaming  shuttle  was  at  rest,  Davie  Haggart 
had  strolled  into  the  village  from  his  pile  of  stones 
on  the  Whunny  road ;  Hendry  Robb,  the  "  dum- 
my," had  sold  his  last  barrowful  of  "  rozetty  (re- 
siny)  roots  "  for  firewood ;  and  the  people,  having 
tranquilly  supped  and  soused  their  faees  in  their 
water-pails,  slowly  donned  their  Sunday  clothes. 
This  ceremony  was  common  to  all ;  but  here  di- 
vergence set  in.  The  grey  Auld  Licht,  to  whom 
love  was  not  even  a  name,  sat  in  his  high-backed 
arm-chair  by  the  hearth,  Bible  or  "  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress "  in  hand,  occasionally  lapsing  into  slumber. 
But — though,  when  they  got  the  chance,  they  went 
willingly  three  times  to  the  kirk — there  were  young 
men  in  the  community  so  flighty  that,  instead  of 
dozing  at  home  on  Saturday  night,  they  dandered 
casually  into  the  square,  and,  forming  into  knots 
at  the  corners,  talked  solemnly  and  mysteriously 
of  women. 

Not  even  on  the  night  preceding  his  wedding 
252 


LADS   AND   LASSES 

was  an  Auld  Licht  ever  known  to  stay  out  after 
ten  o'clock.  So  weekly  conclaves  at  street-corners 
came  to  an  end  at  a  comparatively  early  hour,  one 
Coelebs  after  another  shuffling  silently  from  the 
square  until  it  echoed,  deserted;  to  the  town-house 
clock.  The  last  of  the  gallants,  gradually  discov- 
ering that  he  was  alone,  would  look  around  him 
musingly,  and,  taking  in  the  situation,  slowly 
wend  his  way  home.  On  no  other  night  of  the 
week  was  frivolous  talk  abo,ut  the  softer  sex  in- 
dulged in,  the  Auld  Lichts  being  creatures  of  habit 
who  never  thought  of  smiling  on  a  Monday. 
Long  before  they  reached  their  teens  they  were 
earning  their  keep  as  herds  in  the  surrounding 
glens  or  filling  "  pirns  "  for  their  parents ;  but  they 
were  generally  on  the  brink  of  twenty  before  they 
thought  seriously  of  matrimony.  Up  to  that  time 
they  only  trifled  with  the  other  sex's  affections  at 
a  distance  —  filling  a  maid's  water-pails,  perhaps, 
when  no  one  was  looking,  or  carrying  her  wob ;  at 
the  recollection  of  which  they  would  slap  their 
knees  almost  jovially  on  Saturday  night.  A  wife 
was  expected  to  assist  at  the  loom  as  well  as  to  be 
cunning  in  the  making  of  marmalade  and  the  fir- 
ing of  bannocks,  and  there  was  consequently  some 
heartburning  among  the  lads  for  maids  of  skill 
and  muscle.  The  Auld  Licht,  however,  who 
meant  marriage  seldom  loitered  in  the  streets. 
By  and  by  there  came  a  time  when  the  clock 

253 


AULD  LIGHT   IDYLLS 

looked  down  through  its  cracked  glass  upon  the 
hemmed  in  square  and  saw  him  not  His  compan- 
ions, gazing  at  each  other's  boots,  felt  that  some- 
thing was  going  on,  but  made  no  remark. 

A  month  ago,  passing  through  the  shabby  famil- 
iar square,  I  brushed  against  a  withered  old  man 
tottering  down  the  street  under  a  load  of  yarn.  It 
was  piled  on  a  wheelbarrow  which  his  feeble  hands 
could  not  have  raised  but  for  the  rope  of  yarn  that 
supported  it  from  his  shoulders ;  and  though  Auld 
Licht  was  written  on  his  patient  eyes,  I  did  not 
immediately  recognize  Jamie  Whamond.  Years 
ago  Jamie  was  a  sturdy  weaver  and  fervent  lover 
whom  I  had  the  right  to  call  my  friend.  Turn  back 
the  century  a  few  decades,  and  we  are  together  on  a 
moonlight  night,  taking  a  short  cut  through  the 
fields  from  the  farm  of  Craigiebuckle.  Buxom 
were  Craigiebuckle's  "dochters,"  and  Jamie  was 
Janet's  accepted  suitor.  It  was  a  muddy  road 
through  damp  grass,  and  we  picked  our  way  silently 
over  its  ruts  and  pools.  "  I'm  thinkin',"  Jamie 
said  at  last,  a  little  wistfully,  "  that  I  micht  hae 
been  as  weel  wi'  Chirsty."  Chirsty  was  Janet's 
sister,  and  Jamie  had  first  thought  of  her.  Craigie- 
buckle, however,  strongly  advised  him  to  take 
Janet  instead,  and  he  consented.  Alack !  heavy 
wobs  have  taken  all  the  grace  from  Janet's  shoul- 
ders this  many  a  year,  though  she  and  Jamie  go 
bravely  down  the  hill  together.  Unless  they  pass 

254 


LADS  AND  LASSES 

the  allotted  span  of  life,  the  "  poorshouse  "  will 
never  know  them.  As  for  bonny  Chirsty,  she 
proved  a  flighty  thing,  and  married  a  deacon  in  the 
Established  Church.  The  Auld  Lichts  groaned 
over  her  fall,  Craigiebuckle  hung  his  head,  and 
the  minister  told  her  sternly  to  go  her  way.  But 
a  few  weeks  afterwards  Lang  Tammas,  the  chief 
elder,  was  observed  talking  with  her  for  an  hour 
in  Gowrie's  close;  and  the  very  next  Sabbath 
Chirsty  pushed  her  husband  in  triumph  into  her 
father's  pew.  The  minister,  though  completely 
taken  by  surprise,  at  once  referred  to  the  stranger, 
in  a  prayer  of  great  length,  as  a  brand  that  might 
yet  be  plucked  from  the  burning.  Changing  his 
text,  he  preached  at  him ;  Lang  Tammas,  the  pre- 
centor, and  the  whole  congregation  (Chirsty  in- 
cluded), sang  at  him;  and  before  he  exactly  realized 
his  position  he  had  become  an  Auld  Licht  for  life. 
Chirsty's  triumph  was  complete  when,  next  week, 
in  broad  daylight,  too,  the  minister's  wife  called, 
and  (in  the  presence  of  Betsy  Munn,  who  vouches 
for  the  truth  of  the  story)  graciously  asked  her  to 
come  up  to  the  manse  on  Thursday,  at  4  p.  m., 
and  drink  a  dish  of  tea.  Chirsty,  who  knew  her 
position,  of  course  begged  modestly  to  be  excused ; 
but  a  coolness  arose  over  the  invitation  between 
her  and  Janet  —  who  felt  slighted  —  that  was  only 
made  up  at  the  laying-out  of  Chirsty's  father-in- 
law,  to  which  Janet  was  pleasantly  invited. 

255 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

When  they  had  red  up  the  house,  the  Auld 
Licht  lassies  sat  in  the  gloaming  at  their  doors  on 
three-legged  stools,  patiently  knitting  stockings. 
To  them  came  stiff-limbed  youths  who,  with  a 
"  Blawy  nicht,  Jeanie "  (to  which  the  inevitable 
answer  was,  "  It  is  so,  Cha-rles "),  Bested  their 
shoulders  on  the  doorpost,  and  silently  followed 
with  their  eyes  the  flashing  needles.  Thus  the 
courtship  began  —  often  to  ripen  promptly  into 
marriage,  at  other  times  to  go  no  further.  The 
smooth-haired  maids,  neat  in  their  simple  wrap- 
pers, knew  they  were  on  their  trial  and  that  it 
behoved  them  to  be  wary.  They  had  not  com- 
passed twenty  winters  without  knowing  that  Mar- 
get  Todd  lost  Davie  Haggart  because  she  "  fittit " 
a  black  stocking  with  brown  worsted,  and  that 
Finny's  grieve  turned  from  Bell  Whamond  on  ac- 
count of  the  frivolous  flowers  in  her  bonnet :  and 
yet  Bell's  prospects,  as  I  happen  to  know,  at  one 
time  looked  bright  and  promising.  Sitting  over 
her  father's  peat-fire  one  night  gossiping  with  him 
about  fishing-flies  and  tackle,  I  noticed  the  grieve, 
who  had  dropped  in  by  appointment  with  some 
ducks'  eggs  on  which  Bell's  clockin  hen  was  to 
sit,  performing  some  sleight-of-hand  trick  with  his 
coat-sleeve.  Craftily  he  jerked  and  twisted  it,  till 
his  own  photograph  (a  black  smudge  on  white) 
gradually  appeared  to  view.  This  he  gravely 
slipped  into  the  hands  of  the  maid  of  his  choice, 

256 


LADS   AND   LASSES 

and  then  took  his  departure,  apparently  much  re- 
lieved. Had  not  Bell's  light-headedness  driven 
him  away,  the  grieve  would  have  soon  followed 
up  his  gift  with  an  offer  of  his  hand.  Some  night 
Bell  would  have  "  seen  him  to  the  door,"  and  they 
would  have  stared  sheepishly  at  each  other  before 
saying  good-night.  The  parting  salutation  given, 
the  grieve  would  still  have  stood  his  ground,  and 
Bell  would  have  waited  with  him.  At  last,  "Will 
ye  hae's,  Bell  *? "  would  have  dropped  from  his 
half-reluctant  lips;  and  Bell  would  have  mum- 
bled "  Ay,"  with  her  thumb  in  her  mouth.  "  Guid 
nicht  to  ye,  Bell,"  would  be  the  next  remark  — 
"Guid  nicht  to  ye,  Jeames,"  the  answer;  the 
humble  door  would  close  softly,  and  Bell  and  her 
lad  would  have  been  engaged.  But,  as  it  was, 
their  attachment  never  got  beyond  the  silhouette 
stage,  from  which,  in  the  ethics  of  the  Auld  Lichts, 
a  man  can  draw  back  in  certain  circumstances, 
without  loss  of  honour.  The  only  really  tender 
thing  I  ever  heard  an  Auld  Licht  lover  say  to 
his  sweetheart  was  when  Gowrie's  brother  looked 
softly  into  Easie  Tamson's  eyes  and  whispered, 
"  Do  you  swite  (sweat)  ?  "  Even  then  the  effect 
was  produced  more  by  the  loving  cast  in  Gowrie's 
eye  than  by  the  tenderness  of  the  words  themselves. 
The  courtships  were  sometimes  of  long  dura- 
tion, but  as  soon  as  the  young  man  realized  that 
he  was  courting  he  proposed.  Cases  were  not 

257 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

wanting  in  which  he  realized  this  for  himself,  but 
as  a  rule  he  had  to  be  told  of  it. 

There  were  a  few  instances  of  weddings  among 
the  Auld  Lichts  that  did  not  take  place  on  Friday. 
Betsy  Munn's  brother  thought  to  assert  his  two 
coal-carts,  about  which  he  was  sinfully  puffed  up, 
by  getting  married  early  in  the  week ;  but  he  was 
a  pragmatical  feckless  body,  Jamie.  The  foreigner 
from  York  that  Finny's  grieve  after  disappoint- 
ing Bell  Whamond  took,  sought  to  sow  the  seeds 
of  strife  by  urging  that  Friday  was  an  unlucky 
day;  and  I  remember  how  the  minister,  who  was 
always  great  in  a  crisis,  nipped  the  bickering  in 
the  bud  by  adducing  the  conclusive  fact  that  he 
had  been  married  on  the  sixth  day  of  the  week 
himself.  It  was  a  judicious  policy  on  Mr.  Dish- 
art's  part  to  take  vigorous  action  at  once  and  in- 
sist on  the  solemnization  of  the  marriage  on  a 
Friday  or  not  at  all,  for  he  best  kept  superstition 
out  of  the  congregation  by  branding  it  as  heresy. 
Perhaps  the  Auld  Lichts  were  only  ignorant  of 
the  grieve's  lass's  theory  because  they  had  not 
thought  of  it.  Friday's  claims,  too,  were  incon- 
trovertible; for  the  Saturday's  being  a  slack  day 
gave  the  couple  an  opportunity  to  put  their  but 
and  ben  in  order,  and  on  Sabbath  they  had  a  gay 
day  of  it,  three  times  at  the  kirk.  The  honeymoon 
over,  the  racket  of  the  loom  began  again  on  the 
Monday. 

258 


LADS   AND   LASSES 

The  natural  politeness  of  the  Allardice  family 
gave  me  my  invitation  to  Tibbie's  wedding.  I 
was  taking  tea  and  cheese  early  one  wintry  after- 
noon with  the  smith  and  his  wife,  when  little  Joey 
Todd  in  his  Sabbath  clothes  peered  in  at  the  pas- 
sage, and  then  knocked  primly  at  the  door.  An- 
dra  forgot  himself,  and  called  out  to  him  to  come 
in  by ;  but  Jess  frowned  him  into  silence,  and  has- 
tily donning  her  black  mutch,  received  Willie  on 
the  threshold.  Both*  halves  of  the  door  were  open, 
and  the  visitor  had  looked  us  over  carefully  before 
knocking ;  but  he  had  come  with  the  compliments 
of  Tibbie's  mother,  requesting  the  pleasure  of  Jess 
and  her  man  that  evening  to  the  lassie's  marriage 
with  Sam'l  Todd,  and  the  knocking  at  the  door 
was  part  of  the  ceremony.  Five  minutes  after- 
wards Joey  returned  to  beg  a  moment  of  me  in 
the  passage ;  when  I,  too,  got  my  invitation.  The 
lad  had  just  received,  with  an  expression  of  polite 
surprise,  though  he  knew  he  could  claim  it  as  his 
right,  a  slice  of  crumbling  shortbread,  and  taken 
his  staid  departure,  when  Jess  cleared  the  tea- 
things  off  the  table,  remarking  simply  that  it  was 
a  mercy  we  had  not  got  beyond  the  first  cup. 
We  then  retired  to  dress. 

About  six  o'clock,  the  time  announced  for  the 
ceremony,  I  elbowed  my  way  through  the  expec- 
tant throng  of  men,  women,  and  children  that  al- 
ready besieged  the  smith's  door.  Shrill  demands 

259 


AULD   LICHT   IDYLLS 

of  "  Toss,  toss ! "  rent  the  air  every  time  Jess's 
head  showed  on  the  window-blind,  and  Andra 
hoped,  as  I  pushed  open  the  door,  "that  I  hadna 
forgotten  my  bawbees."  Weddings  were  cele- 
brated among  the  Auld  Lichts  by  showers  of  ha'- 
pence, and  the  guests  on  their  way  to  the  bride's 
house  had  to  scatter  to  the  hungry  rabble  like 
housewives  feeding  poultry.  Willie  Todd,  the 
best  man,  who  had  never  come  out  so  strong  in 
his  life  before,  slipped  through  the  back  window, 
while  the  crowd,  led  on  by  Kitty  McQueen, 
seethed  in  front,  and  making  a  bolt  for  it  to  the 
"  'Sosh,"  was  back  in  a  moment  with  a  handful  of 
small  change.  "  Dinna  toss  ower  lavishly  at  first," 
the  smith  whispered  me  nervously,  as  we  followed 
Jess  and  Willie  into  the  darkening  wynd. 

The  guests  were  packed  hot  and  solemn  in 
Johnny  Allardice's  "  room :  "  the  men  anxious  to 
surrender  their  seats  to  the  ladies  who  happened 
to  be  standing,  but  too  bashful  to  propose  it ;  the 
ham  and  the  fish  frizzling  noisily  side  by  side  but 
the  house,  and  hissing  out  every  now  and  then  to 
let  all  whom  it  might  concern  know  that  Janet 
Craik  was  adding  more  water  to  the  gravy.  A 
better  woman  never  lived ;  but,  oh,  the  hypocrisy 
of  the  face  that  beamed  greeting  to  the  guests  as 
if  it  had  nothing  to  do  but  politely  show  them  in, 
and  gasped  next  moment  with  upraised  arms,  over 
what  was  nearly  a  fall  in  crockery.  When  J^net 

260 


LADS  AND  LASSES 

sped  to  the  door  her  "  spleet  new  "  merino  dress 
fell,  to  the  pulling  of  a  string,  over  her  home-made 
petticoat,  like  the  drop-scene  in  a  theatre,  and  rose 
as  promptly  when  she  returned  to  slice  the  bacon. 
The  murmur  of  admiration  that  filled  the  room 
when  she  entered  with  the  minister  was  an  invol- 
untary tribute  to  the  spotlessness  of  her  wrapper 
and  a  great  triumph  for  Janet  If  there  is  an  im- 
pression that  the  dress  of  the  Auld  Lichts  was  on 
all  occasions  as  sombre  as  their  faces,  let  it  be 
known  that  the  bride  was  but  one  of  several  in 
"whites,"  and  that  Mag  Munn  had  only  at  the 
last  moment  been  dissuaded  from  wearing  flowers* 
The  minister,  the  Auld  Lichts  congratulated  them- 
selves, disapproved  of  all  such  decking  of  the  per- 
son and  bowing  of  the  head  to  idols ;  but  on  such 
an  occasion  he  was  not  expected  to  observe  it. 
Bell  Whamond,  however,  has  reason  for  knowing 
that,  marriages  or  no  marriages,  he  drew  the  line 
at  curls. 

By  and  by  Sam'l  Todd,  looking  a  little  dazed, 
was  pushed  into  the  middle  of  the  room  to  Tib- 
bie's side,  and  the  minister  raised  his  voice  in 
prayer.  All  eyes  closed  reverently,  except  per- 
haps the  bridegroom's,  which  seemed  glazed  and 
vacant.  It  was  an  open  question  in  the  commu- 
nity whether  Mr.  Dishart  did  not  miss  his  chance  at 
weddings;  the  men  shaking  their  heads  over  the 
comparative  brevity  of  the  ceremony,  the  women 

261 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

worshipping  him  (though  he  never  hesitated  to  re- 
buke them  when  they  showed  it  too  openly)  for 
the  urbanity  of  his  manners.  At  that  time,  how- 
ever, only  a  minister  of  such  experience  as  Mr. 
Dishart's  predecessor  could  lead  up  to  a  marriage 
in  prayer  without  inadvertently  joining  the  couple ; 
and  the  catechizing  was  mercifully  brief.  Another 
prayer  followed  the  union;  the  minister  waived 
his  right  to  kiss  the  bride ;  every  one  looked  at 
every  other  one,  as  if  he  had  for  the  moment  for- 
gotten what  he  was  on  the  point  of  saying  and 
found  it  very  annoying;  and  Janet  signed  franti- 
cally to  Willie  Todd,  who  nodded  intelligently  in 
reply,  but  evidently  had  no  idea  what  she  meant. 
In  time  Johnny  Allardice,  our  host,  who  became 
more  and  more  doited  as  the  night  proceeded,  re- 
membered his  instructions,  and  led  the  way  to  the 
kitchen,  where  the  guests,  having  politely  informed 
their  hostess  that  they  were  not  hungry,  partook 
of  a  hearty  tea.  Mr.  Dishart  presided  with  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  near  him;  but  though  he 
tried  to  give  an  agreeable  turn  to  the  conversation 
by  describing  the  extensions  at  the  cemetery,  his 
personality  oppressed  us,  and  we  only  breathed 
freely  when  he  rose  to  go.  Yet  we  marvelled  at 
his  versatility.  In  shaking  hands  with  the  newly- 
married  couple  the  minister  reminded  them  that  it 
was  leap-year,  and  wished  them  "three  hundred 
and  sixty-six  happy  and  God-fearing  days." 

262 


LADS   AND   LASSES 

Sam'l's  station  being  too  high  for  it,  Tibbie  did 
not  have  a  penny  wedding,  which  her  thrifty  mo- 
ther bewailed,  penny  weddings  starting  a  couple  in 
life.  I  can  recall  nothing  more  characteristic  of 
the  nation  from  which  the  Auld  Lichts  sprung 
than  the  penny  wedding,  where  the  only  revellers 
that  were  not  out  of  pocket  by  it,  were  the  couple 
who  gave  the  entertainment.  The  more  the  guests 
ate  and  drank  the  better,  pecuniarily,  for  their 
hosts.  The  charge  for  admission  to  the  penny 
wedding  (practically  to  the  feast  that  followed  it) 
varied  in  different  districts,  but  with  us  it  was 
generally  a  shilling.  Perhaps  the  penny  extra  to 
the  fiddler  accounts  for  the  name  penny  wedding. 
The  ceremony  having  been  gone  through  in  the 
bride's  house,  there  was  an  adjournment  to  a  barn 
or  other  convenient  place  of  meeting,  where  was 
held  the  nuptial  feast ;  long  white  boards  from  Rob 
Angus's  sawmill,  supported  on  trestles,  stood  in 
lieu  of  tables;  and  those  of  the  company  who 
could  not  find  a  seat  waited  patiently  against  the 
wall  for  a  vacancy.  The  shilling  gave  every  guest 
the  free  run  of  the  groaning  board,  but  though 
fowls  were  plentiful,  and  even  white  bread  too, 
little  had  been  spent  on  them.  The  farmers  of 
the  neighbourhood,  who  looked  forward  to  pro- 
viding the  young  people  with  drills  of  potatoes 
for  the  coming  winter,  made  a  bid  for  their  cus- 
tom by  sending  them  a  fowl  gratis  for  the  mar- 

263 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

riage  supper.  It  was  popularly  understood  to  be 
the  oldest  cock  of  the  farmyard,  but  for  all  that  it 
made  a  brave  appearance  in  a  shallow  sea  of  soup., 
The  fowls  were  always  boiled  —  without  excep- 
tion, so  far  as  my  memory  carries  me ;  the  guid- 
wife  never  having  the  heart  to  roast  them,  and  sc 
lose  the  broth.  One  round  of  whisky-and-water 
was  all  the  drink  to  which  his  shilling  entitled  the 
guest.  If  he  wanted  more  he  had  to  pay  for  it. 
There  was  much  revelry,  with  song  and  dance, 
that  no  stranger  could  have  thought  those  stiff- 
limbed  weavers  capable  of;  and  the  more  they 
shouted  and  whirled  through  the  barn,  the  more 
their  host  smiled  and  rubbed  his  hands.  He  pre- 
sided at  the  bar  improvised  for  the  occasion,  and 
if  the  thing  was  conducted  with  spirit,  his  bride 
flung  an  apron  over  her  gown  and  helped  himc  I 
remember  one  elderly  bridegroom,  who,  having 
married  a  blind  woman,  had  to  do  double  work  at 
his  penny  wedding.  It  was  a  sight  to  see  him 
flitting  about  the  torch-lit  barn,  with  a  kettle  of 
hot  water  in  one  hand  and  a  besom  to  sweep  up 
crumbs  in  the  other. 

Though  Sam'l  had  no  penny  wedding,  however, 
we  made  a  night  of  it  at  his  marriage. 

Wedding  chariots  were  not  in  those  days, 
though  I  know  of  Auld  Lichts  being  conveyed  to 
marriages  nowadays  by  horses  with  white  ears. 
The  tea  over,  we  formed  in  couples,  and  —  the 

264 


LADS   AND   LASSES 

best  man  with  the  bride,  the  bridegroom  with  the 
best  maid,  leading  the  way  —  marched  in  slow 
procession  in  the  moonlight  night  to  Tibbie's  new 
home,  between  lines  of  hoarse  and  eager  onlook- 
ers. An  attempt  was  made  by  an  itinerant  musi- 
cian to  head  the  company  with  his  fiddle;  but 
instrumental  music,  even  in  the  streets,  was  abhor- 
rent to  sound  Auld  Lichts,  and  the  minister  had 
spoken  privately  to  Willie  Todd  on  the  subject. 
As  a  consequence,  Peter  was  driven  from  the 
ranks.  The  last  thing  I  saw  that  night,  as  we 
filed,  bare-headed  and  solemn,  into  the  newly-mar- 
ried couple's  house,  was  Kitty  McQueen's  vigor- 
ous arm,  in  a  dishevelled  sleeve,  pounding  a  pair 
of  urchins  who  had  got  between  her  and  a  muddy 
ha'penny. 

That  night  there  was  revelry  and  boisterous 
mirth  (or  what  the  Auld  Lichts  took  for  such)  in 
Tibbie's  kitchen.  At  eleven  o'clock  Davit  Lunan 
cracked  a  joke.  Davie  Haggart,  in  reply  to  Bell 
Dundas's  request,  gave  a  song  of  distinctly  secular 
tendencies.  The  bride  (who  had  carefully  taken 
offher  wedding  gown  on  getting  home  and  donned 
a  wrapper)  coquettishly  let  the  bridegroom's  father 
hold  her  hand.  In  Auld  Licht  circles,  when  one 
of  the  company  was  offered  whisky  and  refused  it, 
the  others,  as  if  pained  even  at  the  offer,  pushed  it 
from  them  as  a  thing  abhorred.  But  Davie  Hag- 
gart set  another  example  on  this  occasion,  and  no 

265 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

one  had  the  courage  to  refuse  to  follow  it.  We 
sat  late  round  the  dying  fire,  and  it  was  only  Wil- 
lie Todd's  scandalous  assertion  (he  was  but  a  boy) 
about  his  being  able  to  dance  that  induced  us  to 
think  of  moving.  In  the  community,  I  under- 
stand, this  marriage  is  still  memorable  as  the  occa- 
sion on  which  Bell  Whamond  laughed  in  the 
minister's  face. 


266 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   AULD   LIGHTS   IN   ARMS 

ARMS  and  men  I  sing :  douce  Jeemsy  Todd,  rush- 
ing from  his  loom,  armed  with  a  bed-post;  Lis- 
beth  Whamond,  an  avenging  whirlwind;  Neil 
Haggart,  pausing  in  his  thanks-offerings  to  smite 
and  slay;  the  impious  foe  scudding  up  the  bleed- 
ing Brae-head  with  Nemesis  at  their  flashing  heels ; 
the  minister  holding  it  a  nice  question  whether  the 
carnage  was  not  justified.  Then  came  the  two 
hours'  sermons  of  the  following  Sabbath,  when 
Mr.  Dishart,  revolving  like  a  teetotum  in  the  pul- 
pit, damned  every  bandaged  person  present,  indi- 
vidually and  collectively ;  and  Lang  Tammas,  in 
the  precentor's  box  with  a  plaster  on  his  cheekr 
included  any  one  the  minister  might  have  by 
chance  omitted,  and  the  congregation,  with  most  of 
their  eyes  bunged  up,  burst  into  psalms  of  praise. 

Twice  a  year  the  Auld  Lichts  went  demented. 
The  occasion  was  the  Fast  Day  at  Tilliedrum; 
when  its  inhabitants,  instead  of  crowding  reverently 
to  the  kirk,  swooped  profanely  down  in  their  scores 
and  tens  of  scores  on  our  God-fearing  town,  intent 

267 


AULD  LIGHT   IDYLLS 

on  making  a  day  of  it.  Then  did  the  weavers  rise 
as  one  man,  and  go  forth  to  show  the  ribald  crew 
the  errors  of  their  way.  All  denominations  were 
represented,  but  Auld  Lichts  led.  An  Auld  Licht 
would  have  taken  no  man's  blood  without  the 
conviction  that  he  would  be  the  better  morally  for 
the  bleeding;  and  if  Tammas  Lunan's  case  gave 
an  impetus  to  the  blows,  it  can  only  have  been 
because  it  opened  wider  Auld  Licht  eyes  to  Tillie- 
drum's  desperate  condition.  Mr.  Dishart's  pre- 
decessor more  than  once  remarked,  that  at  the 
Creation  the  devil  put  forward  a  claim  for  Thrums, 
but  said  he  would  take  his  chance  of  Tilliedrum ; 
and  the  statement  was  generally  understood  to  be 
made  on  the  authority  of  the  original  Hebrew. 

The  mustard-seed  of  a  feud  between  the  two 
parishes  shot  into  a  tall  tree  in  a  single  night,  when 
Davit  Lunan's  father  went  to  a  tattie  roup  at 
Tilliedrum  and  thoughtlessly  died  there.  Twenty- 
four  hours  afterwards  a  small  party  of  staid  Auld 
Lichts,  carrying  long  white  poles,  stepped  out  of 
various  wynds  and  closes  and  picked  their  solemn 
way  to  the  house  of  mourning.  Nanny  Low,  the 
widow,  received  them  dejectedly,  as  one  oppressed 
by  the  knowledge  that  her  man's  death  at  such  an 
inopportune  place  did  not  fulfil  the  promise  of  his 
youth ;  and  her  guests  admitted  bluntly  that  they 
were  disappointed  in  Tammas.  Snecky  Hobart's 
father's  unusually  long  and  impressive  prayer  was 

268 


THE  AULD  LIGHTS   IN  ARMS 

an  official  intimation  that  the  deceased,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  session,  sorely  needed  everything 
of  the  kind  he  could  get ;  and  then  the  silent  drib- 
let of  Auld  Lichts  in  black  stalked  off  in  the  di- 
rection of  Tilliedrum.  Women  left  their  spin- 
ning-wheels and  pirns  to  follow  them  with  their 
eyes  along  the  Tenements,  and  the  minister  was 
known  to  be  holding  an  extra  service  at  the  manse. 
When  the  little  procession  reached  the  boundary- 
line  between  the  two  parishes,  they  sat  down  on  a 
dyke  and  waited. 

By  and  by  half  a  dozen  men  drew  near  from  the 
opposite  direction,  bearing  on  poles  the  remains 
of  Tammas  Lunan  in  a  closed  coffin.  The  coffin 
was  brought  to  within  thirty  yards  of  those  who 
awaited  it,  and  then  roughly  lowered  to  the  ground. 
Its  bearers  rested  morosely  on  their  poles.  In 
conveying  Lunan's  remains  to  the  borders  of  his 
own  parish  they  were  only  conforming  to  custom ; 
but  Thrums  and  Tilliedrum  differed  as  to  where 
the  boundary-line  was  drawn,  and  not  a  foot  would 
either  advance  into  the  other's  territory.  For  half 
a  day  the  coffin  lay  unclaimed,  and  the  two  par- 
ties sat  scowling  at  each  other.  Neither  dared 
move.  Gloaming  had  stolen  into  the  valley  when 
Dite  Deuchars  of  Tilliedrum  rose  to  his  feet  and 
deliberately  spat  upon  the  coffin.  A  stone  whizzed 
through  the  air ;  and  then  the  ugly  spectacle  was 
presented,  in  the  grey  night,  of  a  dozen  mutes 

269 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

fighting  with  their  poles  over  a  coffin.  There  was 
blood  on  the  shoulders  that  bore  Tammas's  re- 
mains to  Thrums. 

After  that  meeting  Tilliedrum  lived  for  the  Fast 
Day.  Never,  perhaps,  was  there  a  community 
more  given  up  to  sin,  and  Thrums  felt  "  called  " 
to  its  chastisement.  The  insult  to  Lunan's  coffin, 
however,  dispirited  their  weavers  for  a  time,  and 
not  until  the  suicide  of  Pitlums  did  they  put  much 
fervour  into  their  prayers.  It  made  new  men  of 
them.  Tilliedrum's  sins  had  found  it  out.  Pit- 
lums was  a  farmer  in  the  parish  of  Thrums,  but 
he  had  been  born  at  Tilliedrum;  and  Thrums 
thanked  Providence  for  that,  when  it  saw  him  sus- 
pended between  two  hams  from  his  kitchen  rafters. 
The  custom  was  to  cart  suicides  to  the  quarry 
at  the  Galla  pond  and  bury  them  near  the  cairn 
that  had  supported  the  gallows;  but  on  this  occa- 
sion not  a  farmer  in  the  parish  would  lend  a  cart, 
and  for  a  week  the  corpse  lay  on  the  sanded  floor 
as  it  had  been  cut  down  —  an  object  of  awe-struck 
interest  to  boys  who  knew  no  better  than  to  peep 
through  the  darkened  window.  Tilliedrum  bit  its 
lips  at  home.  The  Auld  Licht  minister,  it  was 
said,  had  been  approached  on  the  subject;  but, 
after  serious  consideration,  did  not  see  his  way  to 
offering  up  a  prayer.  Finally  old  Hobart  and  two 
others  tied  a  rope  round  the  body,  and  dragged  it 
from  the  farm  to  the  cairn,  a  distance  of  four  miles. 

270 


THE  AULD   LIGHTS   IN   ARMS 

Instead  of  this  incident's  humbling  Tilliedrum  into 
attending  church,  the  next  Fast  Day  saw  its  streets 
deserted.  As  for  the  Thrums  Auld  Lichts,  only 
heavy  wobs  prevented  their  walking  erect  like 
men  who  had  done  their  duty.  If  no  prayer  was 
volunteered  for  Pitlums  before  his  burial,  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  psalm-singing  after  it. 

By  early  morn  on  their  Fast  Day  the  Tillie- 
drummers  were  straggling  into  Thrums,  and  the 
weavers,  already  at  their  looms,  read  the  clattering 
of  feet  and  carts  aright.  To  convince  themselves, 
all  they  had  to  do  was  to  raise  their  eyes ;  but  the 
first  triumph  would  have  been  to  Tilliedrum  if 
they  had  done  that.  The  invaders  —  the  men  in 
Aberdeen  blue  serge  coats,  velvet  knee-breeches, 
and  broad  blue  bonnets,  and  the  wincey  gowns  of 
the  women  set  off  with  hooded  cloaks  of  red  or 
tartan  —  tapped  at  the  windows  and  shouted  insult- 
ingly as  they  passed ;  but,  with  pursed  lips,  Thrums 
bent  fiercely  over  its  wobs,  and  not  an  Auld  Licht 
showed  outside  his  door.  The  day  wore  on  to 
noon,  and  still  ribaldry  was  master  of  the  wynds. 
But  there  was  a  change  inside  the  houses.  The 
minister  had  pulled  down  his  blinds ;  moody  men 
had  left  their  looms  for  stools  by  the  fire;  there  were 
rumours  of  a  conflict  in  Andra  Gowrie's  close, 
from  which  Kitty  McQueen  had  emerged  with  her 
short  gown  in  rags ;  and  Lang  Tammas  was  going 
from  door  to  door.  The  austere  precentor  admon- 

271 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

ished  fiery  youth  to  beware  of  giving  way  to  pas- 
sion ;  and  it  was  a  proud  day  for  the  Auld  Lichts 
to  find  their  leading  elder  so  conversant  with  apt 
Scripture  texts.  They  bowed  their  heads  rever- 
ently while  he  thundered  forth  that  those  who 
lived  by  the  sword  would  perish  by  the  sword; 
and  when  he  had  finished  they  took  him  ben  to 
inspect  their  bludgeons.  I  have  a  vivid  recol- 
lection of  going  the  round  of  the  Auld  Licht  and 
other  houses  to  see  the  sticks  and  the  wrists  in 
coils  of  wire. 

A  stranger  in  the  Tenements  in  the  afternoon 
would  have  noted  more  than  one  draggled  youth, 
in  holiday  attire,  sitting  on  a  doorstep  with  a  wet 
cloth  to  his  nose;  and,  passing  down  the  Com- 
monty,  he  would  have  had  to  step  over  prostrate 
lumps  of  humanity  from  which  all  shape  had  de- 
parted. Gavin  Ogilvy  limped  heavily  after  his 
encounter  with  Thrummy  Tosh  —  a  struggle  that 
was  looked  forward  to  eagerly  as  a  bi-yearly  event ; 
Chirsty  Davie's  development  of  muscle  had  not 
prevented  her  going  down  before  the  terrible  on- 
slaught of  Joe  the  miller,  and  Lang  Tammas's 
plasters  told  a  tale.  It  was  in  the  square  that  the 
two  parties,  leading  their  maimed  and  blind,  formed 
in  force ;  Tilliedrum  thirsting  for  its  opponents' 
blood,  and  Thrums  humbly  accepting  the  respon- 
sibility of  punching  the  Fast  Day  breakers  into  the 
ways  of  rectitude.  In  the  small  ill-kept  square 


THE  AULD  LIGHTS   IN  ARMS 

the  invaders,  to  the  number  of  about  a  hundred, 
were  wedged  together  at  its  upper  end,  while  the 
Thrums  people  formed  in  a  thick  line  at  the  foot. 
For  its  inhabitants  the  way  to  Tilliedrum  lay 
through  this  threatening  mass  of  armed  weavers. 
No  words  were  bandied  between  the  two  forces; 
the  centre  of  the  square  was  left  open,  and  nearly 
every  eye  was  fixed  on  the  town-house  clock.  It  di- 
rected operations  and  gave  the  signal  to  charge. 
The  moment  six  o'clock  struck,  the  upper  mass 
broke  its  bonds  and  flung  itself  on  the  living  barri- 
cade. There  was  a  clatter  of  heads  and  sticks,  a 
yelling  and  a  groaning,  and  then  the  invaders, 
bursting  through  the  opposing  ranks,  fled  for  Til- 
liedrum. Down  the  Tanage  brae  and  up  the  Brae- 
head  they  skurried,  half  a  hundred  avenging  spirits 
in  pursuit.  On  the  Tilliedrum  Fast  Day  I  have 
tasted  blood  myself.  In  the  godless  place  there  is 
no  Auld  Licht  kirk,  but  there  are  two  Auld  Lichts 
in  it  now  who  walk  to  Thrums  to  church  every  Sab- 
bath, blow  or  rain  as  it  lists.  They  are  making 
their  influence  felt  in  Tilliedrum. 

The  Auld  Lichts  also  did  valorous  deeds  at  the 
Battle  of  Cabbylatch.  The  farm  land  so  named 
lies  a  mile  or  more  to  the  south  of  Thrums.  You 
have  to  go  over  the  rim  of  the  cup  to  reach  it.  It 
is  low-lying  and  uninteresting  to  the  eye,  except 
for  some  giant  stones  scattered  cold  and  naked 
through  the  fields.  No  human  hands  reared  these 

273 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

boulders,  but  they  might  be  looked  upon  as  tomb- 
stones to  the  heroes  who  fell  (to  rise  hurriedly)  on 
the  plain  of  Cabbylatch. 

The  fight  of  Cabbylatch  belongs  to  the  days  of 
what  are  now  but  dimly  remembered  as  the  Meal 
Mo'bs.  Then  there  was  a  wild  cry  all  over  the 
country  for  bread  (not  the  fine  loaves  that  we 
know,  but  something  very  much  coarser),  and 
hungry  men  and  women,  prematurely  shrunken, 
began  to  forget  the  taste  of  meal.  Potatoes  were 
their  chief  sustenance,  and,  when  the  crop  failed, 
starvation  gripped  them.  At  that  time  the  far- 
mers, having  control  of  the  meal,  had  the  small 
towns  at  their  mercy,  and  they  increased  its  cost. 
The  price  of  the  meal  went  up  and  up,  until  the 
famishing  people  swarmed  up  the  sides  of  the 
carts  in  which  it  was  conveyed  to  the  towns,  and, 
tearing  open  the  sacks,  devoured  it  in  handfuls. 
In  Thrums  they  had  a  stern  sense  of  justice,  and 
for  a  time,  after  taking  possession  of  the  meal, 
they  carried  it  to  the  square  and  sold  it  at  what 
they  considered  a  reasonable  price.  The  money 
was  handed  over  to  the  farmers.  The  honesty  of 
this  is  worth  thinking  about,  but  it  seems  to  have 
only  incensed  the  farmers  the  more;  and  when 
they  saw  that  to  send  their  meal  to  the  town  was 
not  to  get  high  prices  for  it,  they  laid  their  heads 
together  and  then  gave  notice  that  the  people  who 
wanted  meal  and  were  able  to  pay  for  it  must 

274 


come  to  the  farms.  In  Thrums  no  one  who  cared 
to  live  on  porridge  and  bannocks  had  money  to 
satisfy  the  farmers ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  none 
of  them  grudged  going  for  it,  and  go  they  did. 
They  went  in  numbers  from  farm  to  farm,  like 
bands  of  hungry  rats,  and  throttled  the  opposition 
they  not  infrequently  encountered.  The  raging 
farmers  at  last  met  in  council  and,  noting  that 
they  were  lusty  men  and  brave,  resolved  to  march 
in  armed  force  upon  the  erring  people  and  burn 
their  town.  Now  we  come  to  the  Battle  of  Cab- 
bylatch. 

The  farmers  were  not  less  than  eighty  strong, 
and  chiefly  consisted  of  cavalry.  Armed  with 
pitchforks  and  cumbrous  scythes  where  they  were 
not  able  to  lay  their  hands  on  the  more  orthodox 
weapons  of  war,  they  presented  a  determined  ap- 
pearance; the  few  foot-soldiers  who  had  no  cart- 
horses at  their  disposal  bearing  in  their  arms 
bundles  of  fire-wood.  One  memorable  morning 
they  set  out  to  avenge  their  losses ;  and  by  and  by 
a  halt  was  called,  when  each  man  bowed  his  head 
to  listen.  In  Thrums,  pipe  and  drum  were  calling 
the  inhabitants  to  arms.  Scouts  rushed  in  with 
the  news  that  the  farmers  were  advancing  rapidly 
upon  the  town,  and  soon  the  streets  were  clatter- 
ing with  feet.  At  that  time  Thrums  had  its  piper 
and  drummer  (the  bellman  of  a  later  and  more 
degenerate  age) ;  and  on  this  occasion  they  marched 

275 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

together  through  the  narrow  wynds,  firing  the  blood 
of  haggard  men  and  summ  jning  them  to  the  square. 
According  to  my  informant's  father,  the  gathering 
of  these  angry  and  startled  weavers,  when  he  thrust 
his  blue  bonnet  on  his  head  and  rushed  out  to  join 
them,  was  an  impressive  and  solemn  spectacle. 
That  bloodshed  was  meant  there  can  be  no  doubt ; 
for  starving  men  do  not  see  the  ludicrous  side  of 
things.  The  difference  between  the  farmers  and 
the  town  had  resolved  itself  into  an  ugly  and  sul- 
len hate,  and  the  wealthier  townsmen  who  would 
have  come  between  the  people  and  the  bread  were 
fiercely  pushed  aside.  There  was  no  nominal 
leader,  but  every  man  in  the  ranks  meant  to  fight 
for  himself  and  his  belongings ;  and  they  are  said 
to  have  sallied  out  to  meet  the  foe  in  no  disorder. 
The  women  they  would  fain  have  left  behind  them ; 
but  these  had  their  own  injuries  to  redress,  and  they 
followed  in  their  husbands'  wake  carrying  bags  of 
stones.  The  men,  who  were  of  various  denomi- 
nations, were  armed  with  sticks,  blunderbusses, 
anything  they  could  snatch  up  at  a  moment's 
notice ;  and  some  of  them  were  not  unacquainted 
with  fighting.  Dire  silence  prevailed  among  the 
men,  but  the  women  shouted  as  they  ran,  and  the 
jcurious  army  moved  forward  to  the  drone  and 
squall  of  drum  and  pipe.  The  enemy  was  sighted 
on  the  level  land  of  Cabbylatch ;  and  here,  while 
the  intending  combatants  glared  at  each  other,  a 

276 


THE  AULD  LIGHTS  IN  ARMS 

well-known  local  magnate  galloped  his  horse  be- 
tween them  and  ordered  them  in  the  name  of  the 
King  to  return  to  their  homes.  But  for  the  farmers 
that  meant  further  depredation  at  the  people's 
hands,  and  the  townsmen  would  not  go  back  to 
their  gloomy  homes  to  sit  down  and  wait  for  sun- 
shine. Soon  stones  (the  first,  it  is  said,  cast  by  a 
woman)  darkened  the  air.  The  farmers  got  the 
word  to  charge,  but  their  horses,  with  the  best  in- 
tentions, did  not  know  the  way.  There  was  a 
stampeding  in  different  directions,  a  blind  rushing 
of  one  frightened  steed  against  another ;  and  then 
the  townspeople,  breaking  any  ranks  they  had 
hitherto  managed  to  keep,  rushed  vindictively  for- 
ward. The  struggle  at  Cabbylatch  itself  was  not 
of  long  duration ;  for  their  own  horses  proved  the 
farmers'  worst  enemies,  except  in  the  cases  where 
these  sagacious  animals  took  matters  into  their 
own  ordering  and  bolted  judiciously  for  their 
stables.  The  day  was  to  Thrums. 

Individual  deeds  of  prowess  were  done  that  day. 
Of  these  not  the  least  fondly  remembered  by  her 
descendants  were  those  of  the  gallant  matron  who 
pursued  the  most  obnoxious  farmer  in  the  district 
even  to  his  very  porch  with  heavy  stones  and  op- 
probrious epithets.  Once  when  he  thought  he  had 
left  her  far  behind  did  he  alight  to  draw  breath 
and  take  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  she  was  upon  him 
like  a  flail.  With  a  terror-stricken  cry  he  leapt 

277 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

once  more  upon  his  horse  and  fled,  but  not  with- 
out leaving  his  snuff-box  in  the  hands  of  the  de- 
risive enemy.  Meggy  has  long  gone  to  the  kirk- 
yard,  but  the  snuff-mull  is  still  preserved. 

Some  ugly  cuts  were  given  and  received,  and 
heads  as  well  as  ribs  were  broken;  but  the  towns- 
men's triumph  was  short-lived.  The  ringleaders 
were  whipped  through  the  streets  of  Perth,  as  a 
warning  to  persons  thinking  of  taking  the  law  into 
their  own  hands;  and  all  the  lasting  consolation 
they  got  was  that,  some  time  afterwards,  the  chief 
witness  against  them,  the  parish  minister,  met  with 
a  mysterious  death.  They  said  it  was  evidently 
the  hand  of  God ;  but  some  people  looked  sus- 
piciously at  them  when  they  said  it. 


278 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   OLD  DOMINIE 

FROM  the  new  cemetery,  which  is  the  highest  point 
in  Thrums,  you  just  fail  to  catch  sight  of  the  red 
schoolhouse  that  nestles  between  two  bare  trees, 
some  five  miles  up  the  glen  of  Quharity.  This 
was  proved  by  Davit  Lunan,  tinsmith,  whom  I 
have  heard  tell  the  story.  It  was  in  the  time  when 
the  cemetery  gates  were  locked  to  keep  the  bodies 
of  suicides  out,  but  men  who  cared  to  risk  the  con- 
sequences could  get  the  coffin  over  the  high  dyke 
and  bury  it  themselves.  Peter  Lundy's  coffin 
broke,  as  one  might  say,  into  the  churchyard  in 
this  way,  Peter  having  hanged  himself  in  the 
Whunny  wood  when  he  saw  that  work  he  must. 
The  general  feeling  among  the  intimates  of  the 
deceased  was  expressed  by  Davit  when  he  said : 

"  It  may  do  the  crittur  nae  guid  i'  the  tail  o'  the 
day,  but  he  paid  for's  bit  o'  ground,  an'  he's  in's 
richt  to  occupy  it." 

The  custom  was  to  push  the  coffin  on  to  the  wall 
up  a  plank,  and  then  let  it  drop  less  carefully  into 
the  cemetery.  Some  of  the  mourners  were  drag- 

279 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

ging  the  plank  over  the  wall,  with  Davit  Lunan  on 
the  top  directing  them,  when  they  seem  to  have 
let  go  and  sent  the  tinsmith  suddenly  into  the  air. 
A  week  afterwards  it  struck  Davit,  when  in  the 
act  of  soldering  a  hole  in  Leeby  Wheens's  flagon 
(here  he  branched  off  to  explain  that  he  had  made 
the  flagon  years  before,  and  that  Leeby  was  sister 
to  Tammas  Wheens,  and  married  one  Baker  Rob- 
bie, who  died  of  chicken-pox  in  his  forty-fourth 
year),  that  when  "  up  there "  he  had  a  view  of 
Quharity  schoolhouse.  Davit  was  as  truthful  as 
a  man  who  tells  the  same  story  more  than  once 
can  be  expected  to  be,  and  it  is  far  from  a  sus- 
picious circumstance  that  he  did  not  remember 
seeing  the  schoolhouse  all  at  once.  In  Thrums 
things  only  struck  them  gradually.  The  new 
cemetery,  for  instance,  was  only  so  called  because 
it  had  been  new  once. 

In  this  red  stone  school,  full  of  the  modern  im- 
provements that  he  detested,  the  old  dominie  whom 
I  succeeded  taught,  and  sometimes  slept,  during 
the  last  five  years  of  his  cantankerous  life.  It  was 
in  a  little  thatched  school,  consisting  of  but  one 
room,  that  he  did  his  best  work,  some  five  hun- 
dred yards  away  from  the  edifice  that  was  reared 
in  its  stead.  Now  dismally  fallen  into  disrepute, 
often  indeed  a  domicile  for  cattle,  the  ragged  acad- 
emy of  Glen  Quharity,  where  he  held  despotic 
sway  for  nearly  half  a  century,  is  falling  to  pieces 

280 


THE  OLD  DOMINIE 

slowly  in  a  howe  that  conceals  it  from  the  high 
road.  Even  in  its  best  scholastic  days,  when  it 
sent  barefooted  lads  to  college  who  helped  to 
hasten  the  Disruption,  it  was  but  a  pile  of  ungainly 
stones,  such  as  Scott's  Black  Dwarf  flung  together 
in  a  night,  with  holes  in  its  broken  roof  of  thatch 
where  the  rain  trickled  through,  and  never  with 
less  than  two  of  its  knotted  little  window-panes 
stopped  with  brown  paper.  The  twelve  or  twenty 
pupils  of  both  sexes  who  constituted  the  attendance 
sat  at  the  two  loose  desks,  which  never  fell  unless 
you  leaned  on  them,  with  an  eye  on  the  corner  of 
the  earthen  floor  where  the  worms  came  out,  and 
on  cold  days  they  liked  the  wind  to  turn  the  peat 
smoke  into  the  room.  One  boy,  who  was  sup- 
posed to  wash  it  out,  got  his  education  free  for 
keeping  the  schoolhouse  dirty,  and  the  others  paid 
their  way  with  peats,  which  they  brought  in  their 
hands,  just  as  wealthier  school-children  carry  books, 
and  with  pence  which  the  dominie  collected  regu- 
larly every  Monday  morning.  The  attendance  on 
Monday  mornings  was  often  small. 

Once  a  year  the  dominie  added  to  his  income 
by  holding  cockfights  in  the  old  school.  This 
was  at  Yule,  and  the  same  practice  held  in  the 
parish  school  of  Thrums.  It  must  have  been  a 
strange  sight.  Every  male  scholar  was  expected 
to  bring  a  cock  to  the  school,  and  to  pay  a  shilling 
to  the  dominie  for  the  privilege  of  seeing  it  killed 

281 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

there.  The  dominie  was  the  master  of  the  sports, 
assisted  by  the  neighbouring  farmers,  some  of 
whom  might  be  elders  of  the  church.  Three 
rounds  were  fought.  By  the  end  of  the  first 
round  all  the  cocks  had  fought,  and  the  victors 
were  then  pitted  against  each  other.  The  cocks 
that  survived  the  second  round  were  eligible  for 
the  third,  and  the  dominie,  besides  his  shilling, 
got  every  cock  killed.  Sometimes,  if  all  stories 
be  true,  the  spectators  were  fighting  with  each 
other  before  the  third  round  concluded. 

The  glen  was  but  sparsely  dotted  with  houses 
even  in  those  days ;  a  number  of  them  inhabited 
by  farmer-weavers,  who  combined  two  trades  and 
just  managed  to  live.  One  would  have  a  plough, 
another  a  horse,  and  so  in  Glen  Quharity  they 
helped  each  other.  Without  a  loom  in  addition 
many  of  them  would  have  starved,  and  on  Satur- 
days the  big  farmer  and  his  wife,  driving  home  in 
a  gig,  would  pass  the  little  farmer  carrying  or 
wheeling  his  wob  to  Thrums.  When  there  was 
no  longer  a  market  for  the  produce  of  the  hand- 
loom  these  farms  had  to  be  given  up,  and  thus  it 
is  that  the  old  school  is  not  the  only  house  in  our 
weary  glen  around  which  gooseberry  and  currant 
bushes,  once  tended  by  careful  hands,  now  grow 
wild. 

In  heavy  spates  the  children  were  conveyed  to 
the  old  school,  as  they  are  still  to  the  new  one,  in 

282 


THE   OLD   DOMINIE 

carts,  and  between  it  and  the  dominie's  white- 
washed dwelling-house  swirled  in  winter  a  torrent 
of  water  that  often  carried  lumps  of  the  land  along 
with  it.  This  burn  he  had  at  times  to  ford  on 
stilts. 

Before  the  Education  Act  passed  the  dominie 
was  not  much  troubled  by  the  school  inspector, 
who  appeared  in  great  splendour  every  year  at 
Thrums.  Fifteen  years  ago,  however,  Glen 
Quharity  resolved  itself  into  a  School  Board,  and 
marched  down  the  glen,  with  the  minister  at  its 
head,  to  condemn  the  school.  When  the  dominie* 
who  had  heard  of  their  design,  saw  the  Board  ap- 
proaching, he  sent  one  of  his  scholars,  who  enjoyed 
making  a  mess  of  himself,  wading  across  the  burn 
to  bring  over  the  stilts  which  were  lying  on  the 
other  side.  The  Board  were  thus  unable  to  send 
across  a  spokesman,  and  after  they  had  harangued 
the  dominie,  who  was  in  the  best  of  tempers,  from 
the  wrong  side  of  the  stream,  the  siege  was  raised 
by  their  returning  home,  this  time  with  the  minis- 
ter in  the  rear.  So  far  as  is  known  this  was  the 
only  occasion  on  which  the  dominie  ever  lifted  his 
hat  to  the  minister.  He  was  the  Established 
Church  minister  at  the  top  of  the  glen,  but  the  do- 
minie was  an  Auld  Licht,  and  trudged  into  Thrums 
to  church  nearly  every  Sunday  with  his  daughter. 

The  farm  of  Little  Tilly  lay  so  close  to  the  domi- 
nie's house  that  from  one  window  he  could  see 

283 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

through  a  telescope  whether  the  farmer  was  going 
to  church,  owing  to  Little  Tilly's  habit  of  never 
shaving  except  with  that  intention,  and  of  always 
doing  it  at  a  looking-glass  which  he  hung  on  a  nail 
in  his  door.  The  former  was  Established  Church, 
and  when  the  dominie  saw  him  in  his  shirt-sleeves 
with  a  razor  in  his  hand,  he  called  for  his  black 
clothes.  If  he  did  not  see  him  it  is  undeniable 
that  the  dominie  sent  his  daughter  to  Thrums,  but 
remained  at  home  himself.  Possibly,  therefore, 
the  dominie  sometimes  went  to  church,  because 
he  did  not  want  to  give  Little  Tilly  and  the  Es- 
tablished minister  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
he  was  not  devout  to-day,  and  it  is  even  conceiv- 
able that  had  Little  Tilly  had  a  telescope  and  an 
intellect  as  well  as  his  neighbour,  he  would  have 
spied  on  the  dominie  in  return.  He  sent  the 
teacher  a  load  of  potatoes  every  year,  and  the  re- 
cipient rated  him  soundly  if  they  did  not  turn  out 
as  well  as  the  ones  he  had  got  the  autumn  before. 
Little  Tilly  was  rather  in  awe  of  the  dominie,  and 
had  an  idea  that  he  was  a  Freethinker,  because  he 
played  the  fiddle  and  wore  a  black  cap. 

The  dominie  was  a  wizened-looking  little  man, 
with  sharp  eyes  that  pierced  you  when  they  thought 
they  were  unobserved,  and  if  any  visitor  drew  near 
who  might  be  a  member  of  the  Board,  he  disap- 
peared into  his  house  much  as  a  startled  weasel 
makes  for  its  hole.  The  most  striking  thing  about 

284 


THE   OLD  DOMINIE 

him  was  his  walk,  which  to  the  casual  observer 
seemed  a  limp.  The  glen  in  our  part  is  marshy, 
and  to  progress  along  it  you  have  to  jump  from 
one  little  island  of  grass  or  heather  to  another. 
Perhaps  it  was  this  that  made  the  dominie  take 
the  main  road  and  even  the  streets  of  Thrums  in 
leaps,  as  if  there  were  boulders  or  puddles  in  the 
way.  It  is,  however,  currently  believed  among 
those  who  knew  him  best  that  he  jerked  himself 
along  in  that  way  when  he  applied  for  the  vacancy 
in  Glen  Quharity  school,  and  that  he  was  therefore 
chosen  from  among  the  candidates  by  the  com- 
mittee of  farmers,  who  saw  that  he  was  specially 
constructed  for  the  district. 

In  the  spring  the  inspector  was  sent  to  report 
on  the  school,  and,  of  course,  he  said,  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand,  that  this  would  never  do.  So  a  new 
school  was  built,  and  the  ramshackle  little  acad- 
emy that  had  done  good  service  in  its  day  was 
closed  for  the  last  time.  For  years  it  had  been 
without  a  lock ;  ever  since  a  blatter  of  wind  and 
rain  drove  the  door  against  the  fireplace.  After 
that  it  was  the  dominie's  custom,  on  seeing  the 
room  cleared,  to  send  in  a  smart  boy  —  a  dux  was 
always  chosen  —  who  wedged  a  clod  of  earth  or 
peat  between  doorpost  and  door.  Thus  the  school 
was  locked  up  for  the  night.  The  boy  came  out 
by  the  window,  where  he  entered  to  open  the  door 
next  morning.  In  time  grass  hid  the  little  path 

285 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

from  view  that  led  to  the  old  school,  and  a  dozen 
years  ago  every  particle  of  wood  about  the  build- 
ing, including  the  door  and  the  framework  of  the 
windows,  had  been  burned  by  travelling  tinkers. 

The  Board  would  have  liked  to  leave  the  do- 
minie in  his  white-washed  dwelling-house  to  en- 
joy his  old  age  comfortably,  and  until  he  learned 
that  he  had  intended  to  retire.  Then  he  changed 
his  tactics  and  removed  his  beard.  Instead  of  rail- 
ing at  the  new  school,  he  began  to  approve  of  it, 
and  it  soon  came  to  the  ears  of  the  horrified  Estab- 
lished minister,  who  had  a  man  (Established)  in 
his  eye  for  the  appointment,  that  the  dominie  was 
looking  ten  years  younger.  As  he  spurned  a  pen- 
sion he  had  to  get  the  place,  and  then  began  a 
warfare  of  bickerings  between  the  Board  and  him 
that  lasted  until  within  a  few  weeks  of  his  death. 
In  his  scholastic  barn  the  dominie  had  thumped 
the  Latin  grammar  into  his  scholars  till  they  be- 
came university  bursars  to  escape  him.  In  the  new 
school,  with  maps  (which  he  hid  in  the  hen-house) 
and  every  other  modern  appliance  for  making 
teaching  easy,  he  was  the  scandal  of  the  glen.  He 
snapped  at  the  clerk  of  the  Board's  throat,  and 
barred  his  door  in  the  minister's  face.  It  was  one 
of  his  favourite  relaxations  to  peregrinate  the  dis- 
trict, telling  the  farmers  who  were  not  on  the  Board 
themselves,  but  were  given  to  gossiping  with  those 
who  were,  that  though  he  could  slumber  pleasantly 

286 


THE   OLD   DOMINIE 

in  the  school  so  long  as  the  hum  of  the  standards 
was  kept  up,  he  immediately  woke  if  it  ceased. 

Having  settled  himself  in  his  new  quarters,  the 
dominie  seems  to  have  read  over  the  code,  and 
come  at  once  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  be 
idle  to  think  of  straightforwardly  fulfilling  its  re- 
quirements. The  inspector  he  regarded  as  a  natural 
enemy,  who  was  to  be  circumvented  by  much 
guile.  One  year  that  admirable  Oxford  don  ar- 
rived at  the  school,  to  find  that  all  the  children, 
except  two  girls  —  one  of  whom  had  her  face  tied 
up  with  red  flannel  —  were  away  for  the  harvest. 
On  another  occasion  the  dominie  met  the  inspect- 
or's trap  some  distance  from  the  school,  and  ex- 
plained that  he  would  guide  him  by  a  short  cut, 
leaving  the  driver  to  take  the  dog-cart  to  a  farm 
where  it  could  be  put  up.  The  unsuspecting  in- 
spector agreed,  and  they  set  off,  the  obsequious 
dominie  carrying  his  bag.  He  led  his  victim  into 
another  glen,  the  hills  round  which  had  hidden 
their  heads  in  mist,  and  then  slyly  remarked  that 
he  was  afraid  they  had  lost  their  way.  The  min- 
ister, who  liked  to  attend  the  examination,  reproved 
the  dominie  for  providing  no  luncheon,  but  turned 
pale  when  his  enemy  suggested  that  he  should 
examine  the  boys  in  Latin. 

For  some  reason  that  I  could  never  discover,  the 
dominie  had  all  his  life  refused  to  teach  his  scholars 
geography.  The  inspector  and  many  others  asked 

287 


AULD  LIGHT   IDYLLS 

him  why  there  was  no  geography  class,  and  his  in- 
variable answer  was  to  point  to  his  pupils  collect- 
ively, and  reply  in  an  impressive  whisper — 

"  They  winna  hae  her." 

This  story,  too,  seems  to  reflect  against  the 
dominie's  views  on  cleanliness.  One  examination 
day  the  minister  attended  to  open  the  inspection 
with  prayer.  Just  as  he  was  finishing,  a  scholar 
entered  who  had  a  reputation  for  dirt. 

"  Michty ! "  cried  a  little  pupil,  as  his  opening 
eyes  fell  on  the  apparition  at  the  door,  "there's 
Jocky  Tamson  wi'  his  face  washed ! " 

When  the  dominie  was  a  younger  man  he  had 
first  clashed  with  the  minister  during  Mr.  Rattray's 
attempts  to  do  away  with  some  old  customs  that 
were  already  dying  by  inches.  One  was  the  selec- 
tion of  a  queen  of  beauty  from  among  the  young 
women  at  the  annual  Thrums  fair.  The  judges, 
who  were  selected  from  the  better-known  farmers 
as  a  rule,  sat  at  the  door  of  a  tent  that  reeked  of 
whisky,  and  regarded  the  competitors  filing  by 
much  as  they  selected  prize  sheep,  with  a  stolid 
stare.  There  was  much  giggling  and  blushing  on 
these  occasions  among  the  maidens,  and  shouts 
from  their  relatives  and  friends  to  "  Haud  yer  head 
up,  Jean,"  and  "  Lat  them  see  yer  een,  Jess." 
The  dominie  enjoyed  this,  and  was  one  time  chosen 
a  judge,  when  he  insisted  on  the  prize's  being  be- 
stowed on  his  own  daughter,  Marget.  The  other 

288 


THE  OLD  DOMINIE 

judges  demurred,  but  the  dominie  remained  firm 
and  won  the  day. 

"  She  wasna  the  best-faured  amon  them,"  he  ad- 
mitted afterwards,  "but  a  man  maun  mak  the 
maist  o'  his  ain." 

The  dominie,  v  too,  would  not  shake  his  head 
with  Mr.  Rattray  over  the  apple  and  loaf  bread 
raffles  in  the  smithy,  nor  even  at  the  Daft  Days, 
the  black  week  of  glum  debauch  that  ushered  in 
the  year,  a  period  when  the  whole  countryside 
rumbled  to  the  farmer's  "kebec  "-laden  cart. 

For  the  great  part  of  his  career  the  dominie  had 
not  made  forty  pounds  a  year,  but  he  "died 
worth  "  about  three  hundred  pounds.  The  moral 
of  his  life  came  in  just  as  he  was  leaving  it,  for  he 
rose  from  his  deathbed  to  hide  a  whisky  bottle 
from  his  wife. 


289 


CHAPTER  VII 

CREE  QUEERY  AND  MYSY  DROLLY 

THE  children  used  to  fling  stones  at  Grinder 
Queery  because  he  loved  his  mother.  I  never 
heard  the  Grinder's  real  name.  He  and  his  mo- 
ther were  Queery  and  Drolly,  contemptuously  so 
called,  and  they  answered  to  these  names.  I  re- 
member Cree  best  as  a  battered  old  weaver,  who 
bent  forward  as  he  walked,  with  his  arms  hanging 
limp  as  if  ready  to  grasp  the  shafts  of  the  barrow 
behind  which  it  was  his  life  to  totter  uphill  and 
downhill,  a  rope  of  yarn  suspended  round  his 
shaking  neck,  and  fastened  to  the  shafts,  assisting 
him  to  bear  the  yoke  and  slowly  strangling  him. 
By  and  by  there  came  a  time  when  the  barrow 
and  the  weaver  seemed  both  palsy-stricken,  and 
Cree,  gasping  for  breath,  would  stop  in  the  middle 
of  a  brae,  unable  to  push  his  load  over  a  stone. 
Then  he  laid  himself  down  behind  it  to  prevent 
the  barrow's  slipping  back.  On  those  occasions 
only  the  barefooted  boys  who  jeered  at  the  pant- 
ing weaver  could  put  new  strength  into  his  shriv- 
elled arms.  They  did  it  by  telling  him  that  he 

290 


CREE   QUEERY   AND   MYSY   DROLLY 

and  Mysy  would  have  to  go  to  the  "  poorshouse  " 
after  all,  at  which  the  grey  old  man  would  wince, 
as  if  "joukin"  from  a  blow,  and,  shuddering,  rise 
and,  with  a  desperate  effort,  gain  the  top  of  the  in- 
cline. Small  blame  perhaps  attached  to  Cree  if, 
as  he  neared  his  grave,  he  grew  a  little  dottle. 
His  loads  of  yarn  frequently  took  him  past  the 
workhouse,  and  his  eyelids  quivered  as  he  drew 
near.  Boys  used  to  gather  round  the  gate  in  an- 
ticipation of  his  coming,  and  make  a  feint  of  driv- 
ing him  inside.  Cree,  when  he  observed  them,  sat 
down  on  his  barrow-shafts  terrified  to  approach, 
and  I  see  them  now  pointing  to  trie  workhouse  till 
he  left  his  barrow  on  the  road  and  hobbled  away, 
his  legs  cracking  as  he  ran. 

It  is  strange  to  know  that  there  was  once  a  time 
when  Cree  was  young  and  straight,  a  callant  who 
wore  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  and  tried  to  be  a 
hero  for  a  maiden's  sake. 

Before  Cree  settled  down  as  a  weaver,  he  was 
knife  and  scissor-grinder  for  three  counties,  and 
Mysy,  his  mother,  accompanied  him  wherever  he 
went.  Mysy  trudged  alongside  him  till  her  eyes 
grew  dim  and  her  limbs  failed  her,  and  then  Cree 
was  told  that  she  must  be  sent  to  the  pauper's  home. 
After  that  a  pitiable  and  beautiful  sight  was  to  be 
seen.  Grinder  Queery,  already  a  feeble  man,  would 
wheel  his  grindstone  along  the  long  high  road,  leav- 
ing Mysy  behind.  He  took  the  stone  on  a  few  hun- 

291 


AULD  LIGHT   IDYLLS 

dred  yards,  and  then,  hiding  it  by  the  roadside  in 
a  ditch  or  behind  a  paling,  returned  for  his  mother. 
Her  he  led  —  sometimes  he  almost  carried  her  — 
to  the  place  where  the  grindstone  lay,  and  thus  by 
double  journeys  kept  her  with  him.  Every  one 
said  that  Mysy's  death  would  be  a  merciful  release 
—  every  one  but  Cree. 

Cree  had  been  a  grinder  from  his  youth,  having 
learned  the  trade  from  his  father,  but  he  gave  it 
up  when  Mysy  became  almost  blind.  For  a. time 
he  had  to  leave  her  in  Thrums  with  Dan'l  Wilkie's 
wife,  and  find  employment  himself  in  Tilliedrum. 
Mysy  got  me  to  write  several  letters  for  her  to  Cree, 
and  she  cried  while  telling  me  what  to  say.  I  never 
heard  either  of  them  use  a  term  of  endearment  to 
the  other,  but  all  Mysy  could  tell  me  to  put  in  writ- 
ing was  —  "Oh,  my  son  Cree;  oh,  my  beloved 
son;  oh,  I  have  no  one  but  you;  oh,  thou  God 
watch  over  my  Cree  ! "  On  one  of  these  occasions 
Mysy  put  into  my  hands  a  paper,  which,  she  said, 
would  perhaps  help  me  to  write  the  letter.  It  had 
been  drawn  up  by  Cree  many  years  before,  when 
he  and  his  mother  had  been  compelled  to  part  for 
a  time,  and  I  saw  from  it  that  he  had  been  trying 
to  teach  Mysy  to  write.  The  paper  consisted  of 
phrases  such  as  "  Dear  son  Cree,"  "  Loving  moth- 
er," "  I  am  takin'  my  food  weel,"  "  Yesterday," 
"  Blankets,"  "  The  peats  is  near  done,"  "  Mr.  Dis- 
hart,"  "  Come  home,  Cree."  The  Grinder  had  left 

292 


CREE  gUEERY  AND  MYSY   DROLLY 

this  paper  with  his  mother,  and  she  had  written 
letters  to  him  from  it. 

When  Dan'l  Wilkie  objected  to  keeping  a 
cranky  old  body  like  Mysy  in  his  house  Cree 
came  back  to  Thrums  and  took  a  single  room 
with  a  hand-loom  in  it.  The  flooring  was  only 
lumpy  earth,  with  sacks  spread  over  it  to  protect 
Mysy's  feet.  The  room  contained  two  dilapidated 
old  coffin-beds,  a  dresser,  a  high-backed  arm-chair, 
several  three-legged  stools,  and  two  tables,  of 
which  one  could  be  packed  away  beneath  the 
other.  In  one  corner  stood  the  wheel  at  which 
Cree  had  to  fill  his  own  pirns.  There  was  a  plate- 
rack  on  one  wall,  and  near  the  chimney-piece 
hung  the  wag-at-the-wall  clock,  the  timepiece  that 
was  commonest  in  Thrums  at  that  time,  and  that 
got  this  name  because  its  exposed  pendulum 
swung  along  the  wall.  The  two  windows  in  the 
room  faced  each  other  on  opposite  walls,  and 
were  so  small  that  even  a  child  might  have  stuck 
in  trying  to  crawl  through  them.  They  opened 
on  hinges,  like  a  door.  In  the  wall  of  the  dark 
passage  leading  from  the  outer  door  into  the  room 
was  a  recess  where  a  pan  and  pitcher  of  water  al- 
ways stood  wedded,  as  it  were,  and  a  little  hole, 
known  as  the  "  bole,"  in  the  wall  opposite  the  fire- 
place contained  Cree's  library.  It  consisted  of 
Baxter's  "  Saints'  Rest,"  Harvey's  "  Meditations," 
the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  a  work  on  folk-lore,  and 

293 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

several  Bibles.  The  saut-backet,  or  salt-bucket, 
stood  at  the  end  of  the  fender,  which  was  half  of 
an  old  cart-wheel.  Here  Cree  worked,  whistling 
"  Ower  the  watter  for  Chairlie "  to  make  Mysy 
think  that  he  was  as  gay  as  a  mavis.  Mysy  grew 
querulous  in  her  old  age,  and  up  to  the  end  she 
thought  of  poor,  done  Cree  as  a  handsome  gallant. 
Only  by  weaving  far  on  into  the  night  could  Cree 
earn  as  much  as  six  shillings  a  week.  He  began 
at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  worked  until 
midnight  by  the  light  of  his  cruizey.  The  cruizey 
was  all  the  lamp  Thrums  had  in  those  days, 
though  it  is  only  to  be  seen  in  use  now  in  a  few 
old-world  houses  in  the  glens.  It  is  an  ungainly 
thing  in  iron,  the  size  of  a  man's  palm,  and  shaped 
not  unlike  the  palm  when  contracted,  and  deep- 
ened to  hold  a  liquid.  Whale-oil,  lying  open  in 
the  mould,  was  used,  and  the  wick  was  a  rash 
with  the  green  skin  peeled  off.  These  rashes 
were  sold  by  herd-boys  at  a  halfpenny  the  bundle, 
but  Cree  gathered  his  own  wicks.  The  rashes 
skin  readily  when  you  know  how  to  do  it.  The 
iron  mould  was  placed  inside  another  of  the  same 
shape,  but  slightly  larger,  for  in  time  the  oil 
dripped  through  the  iron,  and  the  whole  was  then 
hung  by  a  cleek  or  hook  close  to  the  person  using 
it.  Even  with  three  wicks  it  gave  but  a  stime  of 
light,  and  never  allowed  the  weaver  to  see  more 
than  the  half  of  his  loom  at  a  time.  Sometimes 

294 


CREE   QUEERY   AND   MYSY   DROLLY 

Cree  used  threads  for  wicks.  He  was  too  dull  a 
man  to  have  many  visitors,  but  Mr.  Dishart  called 
occasionally  and  reproved  him  for  telling  his  mother 
lies.  The  lies  Cree  told  Mysy  were  that  he  was 
sharing  the  meals  he  won  for  her,  and  that  he 
wore  the  overcoat  which  he  had  exchanged  years 
before  for  a  blanket  to  keep  her  warm. 

There  was  a  terrible  want  of  spirit  about  Grind- 
er Queery.  Boys  used  to  climb  on  to  his  stone 
roof  with  clods  of  damp  earth  in  their  hands, 
w^hich  they  dropped  down  the  chimney.  Mysy 
was  bed-ridden  by  this  time,  and  the  smoke 
threatened  to  choke  her ;  so  Cree,  instead  of  chas- 
ing his  persecutors,  bargained  with  them.  He 
gave  them  fly-hooks  which  he  had  busked  him- 
self, and  when  he  had  nothing  left  to  give  he  tried 
to  llatter  them  into  dealing  gently  with  Mysy  by 
talking  to  them  as  men.  One  night  it  went 
through  the  town  that  Mysy  now  lay  in  bed  all 
day  listening  for  her  summons  to  depart.  Accor- 
ding to  her  ideas  this  would  come  in  the  form  of 
a  tapping  at  the  window,  and  their  intention  was 
to  forestall  the  spirit.  Dite  Gow's  boy,  who  is 
now  a  grown  man,  was  hoisted  up  to  one  of  the 
little  windows,  and  he  has  always  thought  of  Mysy 
since  as  he  saw  her  then  for  the  last  time.  She  lay 
sleeping,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  and  Cree  sat  by 
the  fireside  looking  at  her. 

Every  one  knew  that  there  was  seldom  a  fire  in 

295 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

that  house  unless  Mysy  was  cold.  Cree  seemed 
to  think  that  the  fire  was  getting  low.  In  the  lit- 
tle closet,  which,  with  the  kitchen,  made  up  his 
house,  was  a  corner  shut  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
room  by  a  few  boards,  and  behind  this  he  kept  his 
peats.  There  was  a  similar  receptacle  for  potatoes 
in  the  kitchen.  Cree  wanted  to  get  another  peat 
for  the  fire  without  disturbing  Mysy.  First  he 
took  off  his  boots,  and  made  for  the  peats  on  tip- 
toe. His  shadow  was  cast  on  the  bed,  however,  so 
he  next  got  down  on  his  knees  and  crawled  softly 
into  the  closet.  With  the  peat  in  his  hands,  he 
returned  in  the  same  way,  glancing  every  moment 
at  the  bed  where  Mysy  lay.  Though  Tammy 
Gow's  face  was  pressed  against  a  broken  window 
he  did  not  hear  Cree  putting  that  peat  on  the  fire. 
Some  say  that  Mysy  heard,  but  pretended  not  to 
do  so  for  her  son's  sake,  that  she  realized  the  de- 
ception he  played  on  her,  and  had  not  the  heart  to 
undeceive  him.  But  it  would  be  too  sad  to  be- 
lieve that.  The  boys  left  Cree  alone  that  night. 

The  old  weaver  lived  on  alone  in  that  solitary 
house  after  Mysy  left  him,  and  by  and  by  the 
story  went  abroad  that  he  was  saving  money.  At 
first  no  one  believed  this  except  the  man  who  told 
it,  but  there  seemed  after  all  to  be  something  in  it. 
You  had  only  to  hit  Cree's  trouser  pocket  to  hear 
the  money  chinking,  for  he  was  afraid  to  let  it  out 
of  his  clutch.  Those  who  sat  on  dykes  with  him 

296 


CREE  QUEERY   AND  MYSY   DROLLY 

when  his  day's  labour  was  over  said  that  the 
weaver  kept  his  hand  all  the  time  in  his  pocket, 
and  that  they  saw  his  lips  move  as  he  counted  his 
hoard  by  letting  it  slip  through  his  fingers.  So 
there  were  boys  who  called  "  Miser  Queery  "  after 
him  instead  of  Grinder,  and  asked  him  whether  he 
was  saving  up  to  keep  himself  from  the  work- 
house. 

But  we  had  all  done  Cree  wrong.  It  came  out 
on  his  deathbed  what  he  had  been  storing  up  his 
money  for.  Grinder,  according  to  the  doctor,  died 
of  getting  a  good  meal  from  a  friend  of  his  earlier 
days  after  being  accustomed  to  starve  on  potatoes 
and  a  very  little  oatmeal  indeed.  The  day  before 
he  died  this  friend  sent  him  half  a  sovereign,  and 
when  Grinder  saw  it  he  sat  up  excitedly  in  his 
bed  and  pulled  his  corduroys  from  beneath  his 
pillow.  The  woman  who,  out  of  kindness,  at- 
tended him  in  his  last  illness,  looked  on  curiously, 
while  Cree  added  the  sixpences  and  coppers  in  his 
pocket  to  the  half-sovereign.  After  all  they  only 
made  some  two  pounds,  but  a  look  of  peace  came 
into  Cree's  eyes  as  he  told  the  woman  to  take  it 
all  to  a  shop  in  the  town.  Nearly  twelve  years 
previously  Jamie  Lownie  had  lent  him  two 
pounds,  and  though  the  money  was  never  asked 
for,  it  preyed  on  Cree's  mind  that  he  was  in  debt. 
He  payed  off  all  he  owed,  and  so  Cree's  life  was 
not,  I  think,  a  failure. 

297 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  COURTING    OF  TNOWHEAD'S   BELL 

FOR  two  years  it  had  been  notorious  in  the  square 
that  Sam'l  Dickie  was  thinking  of  courting  T'now- 
head's  Bell,  and  that  if  little  Sanders  Elshioner 
(which  is  the  Thrums  pronunciation  of  Alexander 
Alexander)  went  in  for  her  he  might  prove  a  for- 
midable rival.  Sam'l  was  a  weaver  in  the  Tene- 
ments, and  Sanders  a  coal-carter  whose  trade  mark 
was  a  bell  on  his  horse's  neck  that  told  when  coals 
were  coming.  Being  something  of  a  public  man, 
Sanders  had  not  perhaps  so  high  a  social  position 
as  Sam'l,  but  he  had  succeeded  his  father  on  the 
coal-cart,  while  the  weaver  had  already  tried  sev- 
eral trades.  It  had  always  been  against  Sam'l,  too, 
that  once  when  the  kirk  was  vacant  he  had  advised 
the  selection  of  the  third  minister  who  preached 
for  it  on  the  ground  than  it  came  expensive  to  pay 
a  large  number  of  candidates.  The  scandal  of  the 
thing  was  hushed  up,  out  of  respect  for  his  father, 
who  was  a  God-fearing  man,  but  Sam'l  was  known 
by  it  in  Lang  Tammas's  circle.  The  coal-carter  was 
called  Little  Sanders  to  distinguish  him  from  his 

298 


COURTING   OF   T'NOWHEAD'S   BELL 

father,  who  was  not  much  more  than  half  his  size. 
He  had  grown  up  with  the  name,  and  its  inappli- 
cability now  came  home  to  nobody.  Sam'l's  mother 
had  been  more  far-seeing  than  Sanders's.  Her  man 
had  been  called  Sammy  all  his  life  because  it  was 
the  name  he  got  as  a  boy,  so  when  their  eldest  son 
was  born  she  spoke  of  him  as  Sam'l  while  still  in 
his  cradle.  The  neighbours  imitated  her,  and  thus 
the  young  man  had  a  better  start  in  life  than  had 
been  granted  to  Sammy,  his  father. 

It  was  Saturday  evening  —  the  night  in  the 
week  when  Auld  Licht  young  men  fell  in  love. 
Sam'l  Dickie,  wearing  a  blue  glengarry  bonnet 
with  a  red  ball  on  the  top,  came  to  the  door  of  a 
one-storey  house  in  the  Tenements  and  stood  there 
wriggling,  for  he  was  in  a  suit  of  tweed  for  the  first 
time  that  week,  and  did  not  feel  at  one  with  them. 
When  his  feeling  of  being  a  stranger  to  himself 
wore  off  he  looked  up  and  down  the  road,  which 
straggles  between  houses  and  gardens,  and  then, 
picking  his  way  over  the  puddles,  crossed  to  his 
father's  hen-house  and  sat  down  on  it.  He  was  now 
on  his  way  to  the  square. 

Eppie  Fargus  was  sitting  on  an  adjoining  dyke 
knitting  stockings,  and  Sam'l  looked  at  her  for  a 
time. 

"  Is't  yersel,  Eppie  ?  "  he  said  at  last 

"  It's  a'  that,"  said  Eppie. 

"  Hoo's  a'  wi'  ye  ?  "  asked  Sam'L 
299 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

"  We're  juist  aff  an'  on,"  replied  Eppie,  cau- 
tiously. 

There  was  not  much  more  to  say,  but  as  Sam'l 
sidled  off  the  henhouse  he  murmured  politely,  "Ay, 
ay."  In  another  minute  he  would  have  been  fairly 
started,  but  Eppie  resumed  the  conversation. 

"Sam'l,"  she  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye, 
"  ye  can  tell  Lisbeth  Fargus  I'll  likely  be  drappin* 
in  on  her  aboot  Mununday  or  Teisday." 

Lisbeth  was  sister  to  Eppie,  and  wife  of  Tammas 
McQuhatty,  better  known  as  T'nowhead,  which 
was  the  name  of  his  farm.  She  was  thus  Bell's 
mistress. 

Sam'l  leant  against  the  henhouse  as  if  all  his  de- 
sire to  depart  had  gone. 

"  Hoo  d'ye  kin  I'll  be  at  the  T'nowhead  the 
nicht?"  he  asked,  grinning  in  anticipation. 

"  Ou,  I'se  warrant  ye'll  be  after  Bell,"  said  Eppie. 

"Am  no  sae  sure  o'  that,"  said  Sam'l,  trying  to 
leer.  He  was  enjoying  himself  now. 

"Am  no  sure  o'  that,"  he  repeated,  for  Eppie 
seemed  lost  in  stitches. 

"Sam'l?" 

"Ay." 

"  Ye'll  be  speirin'  her  sune  noo,  I  dinna  doot  *?  " 

This  took  Sam'l,  who  had  only  been  courting 
Bell  for  a  year  or  two,  a  little  aback. 

"  Hoo  d'ye  mean,  Eppie  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Maybe  ye'll  do't  the  nicht." 
300 


COURTING   OF   T'NOWHEAD'S   BELL 

"  Na,  there's  nae  hurry,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  Weel,  we're  a'  coontin'  on't,  Sam'l." 

"  Gae  wa  wi'  ye," 

"  What  for  no  ?  " 

"  Gae  wa  wi'  ye,"  said  Sam'l  again. 

"  Bell's  gei  an'  fond  o'  ye,  Sam'l." 

"  Ay,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  But  am  dootin'  ye're  a  fell  billy  wi'  the  lasses." 

"Ay,  oh,  I  d'na  kin,  moderate,  moderate,"  said 
Sam'l,  in  high  delight. 

"  I  saw  ye,"  said  Eppie,  speaking  with  a  wire 
in  her  mouth,  "gae'in  on  terr'ble  wi  Mysy  Hag- 
gart  at  the  pump  last  Saturday." 

"  We  was  juist  amoosin'  oorsels,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  It'll  be  nae  amoosement  to  Mysy,"  said  Eppie, 
*'  gin  ye  brak  her  heart." 

"Losh,  Eppie,"  said  Sam'l,  "I  didna  think  o* 
that." 

"  Ye  maun  kin  weel,  Sam'l,  'at  there's  mony  a 
lass  wid  jump  at  ye." 

"  Ou,  weel,"  said  Sam'l,  implying  that  a  man 
must  take  these  things  as  they  come. 

"  For  ye're  a  dainty  chield  to  look  at,  Sam'l." 

"  Do  ye  think  so,  Eppie  *?  Ay,  ay ;  oh,  I  d'na 
kin  am  ony thing  by  the  ordinar." 

"  Ye  mayna  be,"  said  Eppie,  "  but  lasses  doesna 
do  to  be  ower  partikler." 

Sam'l  resented  this,  and  prepared  to  depart  again. 

"  Ye'll  no  tell  Bell  that  ?  "  he  asked,  anxiously. 
301 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

••  Tell  her  what?" 

"Aboot  me  an'  Mysy." 

"  We'll  see  hoo  ye  behave  yersel,  Sam'l." 

"No  'at  I  care,  Eppie;  ye  can  tell  her  gin  ye 
like.  I  widna  think  twice  o'  tellin  her  mysel." 

"  The  Lord  forgie  ye  for  leein',  Sam'l,"  said 
Eppie,  as  he  disappeared  down  Tammy  Tosh's 
close.  Here  he  came  upon  Henders  Webster. 

"Ye're  late,  Sam'l,"  said  Henders. 

"What  for?" 

"  Ou,  I  was  thinkin'  ye  wid  be  gaen  the  length 
o'  T'nowhead  the  nicht,  an'  I  saw  Sanders  Elshioner 
makkin's  wy  there  an  oor  syne." 

"  Did  ye  ?  "  cried  Sam'l,  adding  craftily,  "  but 
it's  naething  to  me." 

"  Tod,  lad,"  said  Henders,  "  gin  ye  dinna  buckle 
to,  Sanders'll  be  carryin'  her  off." 

Sam'l  flung  back  his  head  and  passed  on. 

"  Sam'l ! "  cried  Henders  after  him. 

"  Ay,"  said  Sam'l,  wheeling  round. 

"  Gie  Bell  a  kiss  frae  me." 

The  full  force  of  this  joke  struck  neither  all  at 
once.  Sam'l  began  to  smile  at  it  as  he  turned 
down  the  school-wynd,  and  it  came  upon  Henders 
while  he  was  in  his  garden  feeding  his  ferret.  Then 
he  slapped  his  legs  gleefully,  and  explained  the 
conceit  to  Will'um  Byars,  who  went  into  the  house 
and  thought  it  over. 

There  were  twelve  or  twenty  little  groups  of 
302 


COURTING   OF   T'NOWHEAD'S   BELL 

men  in  the  square,  which  was  lit  by  a  flare  of  oil 
suspended  over  a  cadger's  cart.  Now  and  again 
a  staid  young  woman  passed  through  the  square 
with  a  basket  on  her  arm,  and  if  she  had  lingered 
long  enough  to  give  them  time,  some  of  the  idlers 
would  have  addressed  her.  As  it  was,  they  gazed 
after  her,  and  then  grinned  to  each  other. 

"  Ay,  Sam'l,"  said  two  or  three  young  men,  as 
Sam'l  joined  them  beneath  the  town  clock. 

"  Ay,  Davit,"  replied  Sam'l. 

This  group  was  composed  of  some  of  the  sharp- 
est wits  in  Thrums,  and  it  was  not  to  be  expected 
that  they  would  let  this  opportunity  pass.  Per- 
haps when  Sam'l  joined  them  he  knew  what  was 
in  store  for  him. 

"  Was  ye  lookin'  for  T'nowhead's  Bell,  Sam'l  2  " 
asked  one. 

"  Or  mebbe  ye  was  wantin'  the  minister  ?  "  sug- 
gested another,  the  same  who  had  walked  out  twice 
with  Chirsty  Duff  and  not  married  her  after  all. 

Sam'l  could  not  think  of  a  good  reply  at  the 
moment,  so  he  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"  Ondoobtedly  she's  a  snod  bit  crittur,"  said 
Davit,  archly. 

"An5  michty  clever  wi'  her  fingers,"  added 
Jamie  Deuchars. 

"  Man,  I've  thocht  o'  makkin'  up  to  Bell  mysel," 
said  Pete  Ogle.  "  Wid  there  be  ony  chance,  think 
ye,  Sam'!?" 

303 


"  I'm  thinkin'  she  widna  hae  ye  for  her  first, 
Pete,"  replied  Sam'l,  in  one  of  those  happy  flashes 
that  come  to  some  men,  "  but  there's  nae  sayin' 
but  what  she  micht  tak  ye  to  finish  up  wi.' ' 

The  unexpectedness  of  this  sally  startled  every 
one.  Though  Sam'l  did  not  set  up  for  a  wit, 
however,  like  Davit,  it  was  notorious  that  he  could 
say  a  cutting  thing  once  in  a  way. 

"Did  ye  ever  see  Bell  reddin  up  *?  "  asked  Pete, 
recovering  from  his  overthrow.  He  was  a  man 
who  bore  no  malice. 

"  It's  a  sicht,"  said  Sam'l,  solemnly. 

"  Hoo  will  that  be  ?  "  asked  Jamie  Deuchars. 

"  It's  weel  worth  yer  while,"  said  Pete,  "  to  ging 
atower  to  the  T'nowhead  an'  see.  Ye'll  mind  the 
closed-in  beds  i'  the  kitchen?  Ay,  weel,  they're 
a  fell  spoilt  crew,  T'nowhead's  litlins,  an'  no  that 
aisy  to  manage.  Th'  ither  lasses  Lisbeth's  hae'n 
had  a  michty  trouble  wi'  them.  When  they  war 
i'  the  middle  o'  their  reddin  up  the  bairns  wid 
come  tumlin'  about  the  floor,  but,  sal,  I  assure  ye, 
Bell  didna  fash  lang  wi'  them.  Did  she,  Sam'l  ?  " 

"  She  did  not,"  said  Sam'l,  dropping  into  a  fine 
mode  of  speech  to  add  emphasis  to  his  remark. 

"  I'll  tell  ye  what  she  did,"  said  Pete  to  the  others. 
"  She  juist  lifted  up  the  litlins,  twa  at  a  time,  an' 
flung  them  into  the  coffin-beds.  Syne  she  snibbit 
the  doors  on  them,  an'  keepit  them  there  till  the 
floor  was  dry." 

304 


COURTING  OF  T'NOWHEAD'S  BELL 

"  Ay,  man,  did  she  so  ?  "  said  Davit,  admiringly. 

"  I've  seen  her  do't  mysel,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  There's  no  a  lassie  maks  better  bannocks  this 
side  o*  Fetter  Lums,"  continued  Pete. 

"  Her  mither  tocht  her  that,"  said  Sam'l ;  "  she 
was  a  gran'  han'  at  the  bakin',  Kitty  Ogilvy." 

"  I've  heard  say,"  remarked  Jamie,  putting  it  this 
way  so  as  not  to  tie  himself  down  to  anything,  "  'at 
Bell's  scones  is  equal  to  Mag  Lunan's." 

"  So  they  are,"  said  Sam'l,  almost  fiercely. 

"  I  kin  she's  a  neat  han'  at  singein'  a  hen,"  said 
Pete. 

"An'  wi't  a',"  said  Davit, "  she's  a  snod,  canty  bit 
stocky  in  her  Sabbath  claes." 

"  If  onything,  thick  in  the  waist,"  suggested 
Jamie. 

"  I  dinna  see  that,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  I  d'na  care  for  her  hair  either,"  continued 
Jamie,  who  was  very  nice  in  his  tastes ;  "  some- 
thing mair  yallowchy  wid  be  an  improvement." 

"  A'body  kins,"  growled  Sam'l,  "  'at  black  hair's 
the  bonniest." 

The  others  chuckled. 

"  Puir  Sam'l ! "  Pete  said. 

Sam'l  not  being  certain  whether  this  should  be 
received  with  a  smile  or  a  frown,  opened  his  mouth 
wide  as  a  kind  of  compromise.  This  was  position 
one  with  him  for  thinking  things  over. 

Few  Auld  Lichts,  as  I  have  said,  went  the  length 

305 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

of  choosing  a  helpmate  for  themselves.  One  day 
a  young  man's  friends  would  see  him  mending  the 
washing  tub  of  a  maiden's  mother.  They  kept  the 
joke  until  Saturday  night,  and  then  he  learned  from 
them  what  he  had  been  after.  It  dazed  him  for  a 
time,  but  in  a  year  or  so  he  grew  accustomed  to 
the  idea,  and  they  were  then  married.  With  a 
little  help  he  fell  in  love  just  like  other  people. 

Sam'l  was  going  the  way  of  the  others,  but  he 
found  it  difficult  to  come  to  the  point.  He  only 
went  courting  once  a  week,  and  he  could  never 
take  up  the  running  at  the  place  where  he  left  off 
the  Saturday  before.  Thus  he  had  not,  so  far, 
made  great  headway.  His  method  of  making  up 
to  Bell  had  been  to  drop  in  at  T'nowhead  on  Satur- 
day nights  and  talk  with  the  farmer  about  the  rin- 
derpest. 

The  farm  kitchen  was  Bell's  testimonial.  Its 
chairs,  tables,  and  stools  were  scoured  by  her  to 
the  whiteness  of  Rob  Angus's  sawmill  boards,  and 
the  muslin  blind  on  the  window  was  starched  like 
a  child's  pinafore.  Bell  was  brave,  too,  as  well  as 
energetic.  Once  Thrums  had  been  overrun  with 
thieves.  It  is  now  thought  that  there  may  have 
been  only  one,  but  he  had  the  wicked  cleverness 
of  a  gang.  Such  was  his  repute  that  there  were 
weavers  who  spoke  of  locking  their  doors  when 
they  went  from  home.  He  was  not  very  skilful, 
however,  being  generally  caught,  and  when  they 

306 


COURTING   OF   T'NOWHEAD'S   BELL 

said  they  knew  he  was  a  robber  he  gave  them  their 
things  back  and  went  away.  If  they  had  given 
him  time  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  would  have 
gone  off  with  his  plunder.  One  night  he  went  to 
T'nowhead,  and  Bell,  who  slept  in  the  kitchen, 
was  wakened  by  the  noise.  She  knew  who  it 
would  be,  so  she  rose  and  dressed  herself,  and  went 
to  look  for  him  with  a  candle.  The  thief  had  not 
known  what  to  do  when  he  got  in,  and  as  it  was 
very  lonely  he  was  glad  to  see  Bell.  She  told  him 
he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  and  would  not 
let  him  out  by  the  door  until  he  had  taken  off  his 
boots  so  as  not  to  soil  the  carpet. 

On  this  Saturday  evening  Sam'l  stood  his  ground 
in  the  square,  until  by  and  by  he  found  himself 
alone.  There  were  other  groups  there  still,  but 
his  circle  had  melted  away.  They  went  separately, 
and  no  one  said  good-night.  Each  took  himself 
off  slowly,  backing  out  of  the  group  until  he  was 
fairly  started. 

Sam'l  looked  about  him,  and  then,  seeing  that 
the  others  had  gone,  walked  round  the  townhouse 
into  the  darkness  of  the  brae  that  leads  down  and 
then  up  to  the  farm  of  T'nowhead. 

To  get  into  the  good  graces  of  Lisbeth  Fargus 
you  had  to  know  her  ways  and  humour  them. 
Sam'l,  who  was  a  student  of  women,  knew  this, 
and  so,  instead  of  pushing  the  door  open  and 
walking  in,  he  went  through  the  rather  ridiculous 

307 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

ceremony  of  knocking.  Sanders  Elshioner  was 
also  aware  of  this  weakness  of  Lisbeth's,  but, 
though  he  often  made  up  his  mind  to  knock,  the 
absurdity  of  the  thing  prevented  his  doing  so 
when  he  reached  the  door.  T'nowhead  himself 
had  never  got  used  to  his  wife's  refined  notions, 
and  when  any  one  knocked  he  always  started  to 
his  feet,  thinking  there  must  be  something  wrong. 

Lisbeth  came  to  the  door,  her  expansive  figure 
blocking  the  way  in. 

"  Sam'l,"  she  said. 

"  Lisbeth,"  said  Sam'l. 

He  shook  hands  with  the  farmer's  wife,  know- 
ing that  she  liked  it,  but  only  said,  "  Ay,  Bell,"  to 
his  sweetheart,  "  Ay,  T'nowhead,"  to  McQuhatty, 
and  "  It's  yersel,  Sanders,"  to  his  rival. 

They  were  all  sitting  round  the  fire,  T'nowhead, 
with  his  feet  on  the  ribs,  wondering  why  he  felt  so 
warm,  and  Bell  darned  a  stocking,  while  Lisbeth 
kept  an  eye  on  a  goblet  full  of  potatoes. 

"  Sit  into  the  fire,  Sam'l,"  said  the  farmer,  not, 
however,  making  way  for  him. 

"  Na,  na,"  said  Sam'l,  "  I'm  to  bide  nae  time." 
Then  he  sat  into  the  fire.  His  face  was  turned 
away  from  Bell,  and  when  she  spoke  he  answered 
her  without  looking  round.  Sam'l  felt  a  little  anx- 
ious. Sanders  Elshioner,  who  had  one  leg  shorter 
than  the  other,  but  looked  well  when  sitting, 
seemed  suspiciously  at  home.  He  asked  Bell 

308 


i  photograph  by  G.   W.  Wilson 

SABBATH   AT   T'NOWHEAD 


COURTING  OF  T'NOWHEAD'S  BELL 

questions  out  of  his  own  head,  which  was  beyond 
Saml,  and  once  he  said  something  to  her  in  such 
a  low  voice  that  the  others  could  not  catch  it. 
T'nowhead  asked  curiously  what  it  was,  and  San- 
ders explained  that  he  had  only  said,  "Ay,  Bell, 
the  morn's  the  Sabbath."  There  was  nothing 
startling  in  this,  but  Sam'l  did  not  like  it.  He 
began  to  wonder  if  he  was  too  late,  and  had  he 
seen  his  opportunity  would  have  told  Bell  of  a 
nasty  rumour  that  Sanders  intended  to  go  over  to 
the  Free  Church  if  they  would  make  him  kirk- 
officer. 

Sam'l  had  the  good-will  of  T'nowhead's  wife, 
who  liked  a  polite  man.  Sanders  did  his  best,  but 
from  want  of  practice  he  constantly  made  mistakes. 
To-night,  for  instance,  he  wore  his  hat  in  the  house 
because  he  did  not  like  to  put  up  his  hand  and 
take  it  off.  T'nowhead  had  not  taken  his  off 
either,  but  that  was  because  he  meant  to  go  out 
by  and  by  and  lock  the  byre  door.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  say  which  of  her  lovers  Bell  preferred. 
The  proper  course  with  an  Auld  Licht  lassie  was 
to  prefer  the  man  who  proposed  to  her. 

"  Ye'll  bide  a  wee,  an'  hae  something  to  eat  ?  " 
Lisbeth  asked  Sam'l,  with  her  eyes  on  the  goblet. 

"No,  I  thank  ye,"  said  Sam'l,  with  true  gen- 
teelity. 

"Ye'll  better?" 

"  I  dinna  think  it." 

309 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

"  Hoots  aye ;  what's  to  bender  ye  ?  " 

"  Weel,  since  ye're  sae  pressin',  I'll  bide." 

No  one  asked  Sanders  to  stay.  Bell  could  not; 
for  she  was  but  the  servant,  and  T'nowhead  knew 
that  the  kick  his  wife  had  given  him  meant  that 
he  was  not  to  do  so  either.  Sanders  whistled  to 
show  that  he  was  not  uncomfortable. 

"Ay,  then,  I'll  be  stappin'  ower  the  brae,"  he 
said  at  last. 

He  did  not  go,  however.  There  was  sufficient 
pride  in  him  to  get  him  off  his  chair,  but  only 
slowly,  for  he  had  to  get  accustomed  to  the  notion 
of  going.  At  intervals  of  two  or  three  minutes  he 
remarked  that  he  must  now  be  going.  In  the 
same  circumstances  Sam'l  would  have  acted  simi- 
larly. For  a  Thrums  man  it  is  one  of  the  hardest 
things  in  life  to  get  away  from  anywhere. 

At  last  Lisbeth  saw  that  something  must  be 
done.  The  potatoes  were  burning,  and  T'now- 
head had  an  invitation  on  his  tongue. 

"  Yes,  I'll  hae  to  be  movin',"  said  Sanders,  hope- 
lessly, for  the  fifth  time. 

"  Guid  nicht  to  ye,  then,  Sanders,"  said  Lisbeth. 
"  Gie  the  door  a  fling-to,  ahent  ye." 

Sanders,  with  a  mighty  effort,  pulled  himself  to- 
gether. He  looked  boldly  at  Bell,  and  then  took 
off  his  hat  carefully.  Sam'l  saw  with  misgivings 
that  there  was  something  in  it  which  was  not  a 
handkerchief.  It  was  a  paper  bag  glittering  with 

310 


COURTING   OF   T'NOWHEAD'S   BELL 

gold  braid,  and  contained  such  an  assortment  of 
sweets  as  lads  bought  for  their  lasses  on  the 
Muckle  Friday. 

"  Hae,  Bell,"  said  Sanders,  handing  the  bag  to 
Bell  in  an  off-hand  way  as  if  it  were  but  a  trifle. 
Nevertheless  he  was  a  little  excited,  for  he  went 
off  without  saying  good-night. 

No  one  spoke.  Bell's  face  was  crimson.  T'now- 
head  fidgetted  on  his  chair,  and  Lisbeth  looked  at 
Sam'l.  The  weaver  was  strangely  calm  and  col- 
lected, though  he  would  have  liked  to  know 
whether  this  was  a  proposal. 

"Sit  in  by  to  the  table,  Sam'l,"  said  Lisbeth, 
trying  to  look  as  if  things  were  as  they  had  been 
before. 

She  put  a  saucerful  of  butter,  salt,  and  pepper 
near  the  fire  to  melt,  for  melted  butter  is  the  shoe- 
ing-horn  that  helps  over  a  meal  of  potatoes.  Sam'l, 
however,  saw  what  the  hour  required,  and  jumping 
up,  he  seized  his  bonnet. 

"  Hing  the  tatties  higher  up  the  joist,  Lis- 
beth," he  said  with  dignity ;  "  I'se  be  back  in  ten 
meenits." 

He  hurried  out  of  the  house,  leaving  the  others 
looking  at  each  other. 

"  What  do  ye  think  ?  "  asked  Lisbeth. 

"  I  d'na  kin,"  faltered  Bell. 

**  Thae  tatties  is  lang  o*  comin*  to  the  boil,*'  said 
T'nowhead. 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

In  some  circles  a  lover  who  behaved  like  Sam'l 
would  have  been  suspected  of  intent  upon  his 
rival's  life,  but  neither  Bell  nor  Lisbeth  did  the 
weaver  that  injustice.  In  a  case  of  this  kind  it 
does  not  much  matter  what  T'nowhead  thought. 

The  ten  minutes  had  barely  passed  when  Sam'l 
was  back  in  the  farm  kitchen.  He  was  too  flurried 
to  knock  this  time,  and,  indeed,  Lisbeth  did  not 
expect  it  of  him. 

"  Bell,  hae ! "  he  cried,  handing  his  sweetheart  a 
tinsel  bag  twice  the  size  of  Sanders's  gift. 

"Losh  preserve's!"  exclaimed  Lisbeth;  "I'se 
warrant  there's  a  shillin's  worth." 

"There's  a'  that,  Lisbeth  —  an*  mair,"  said 
Sam'l,  firmly. 

"  I  thank  ye,  Sam'l,"  said  Bell,  feeling  an  un- 
wonted elation  as  she  gazed  at  the  two  paper  bags 
in  her  lap. 

"  Ye're  ower  extravegint,  Sam'l,"  Lisbeth  said. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Sam'l ;  "  not  at  all.  But  I 
widna  advise  ye  to  eat  thae  ither  anes,  Bell  — 
they're  second  quality." 

Bell  drew  back  a  step  from  Sam'l. 

"  How  do  ye  kin  ?  "  asked  the  farmer  shortly, 
for  he  liked  Sanders. 

"  I  spiered  i*  the  shop,"  said  Sam'l. 

The  goblet  was  placed  on  a  broken  plate  on  the 
table  with  the  saucer  beside  it,  and  Sam'l,  like  the 
others,  helped  himself.  What  he  did  was  to  take 

312 


COURTING  OF  T'NOWHEAD'S  BELL 

potatoes  from  the  pot  with  his  fingers,  peel  off  their 
coats,  and  then  dip  them  into  the  butter.  Lisbeth 
would  have  liked  to  provide  knives  and  forks,  but 
she  knew  that  beyond  a  certain  point  T'nowhead 
was  master  in  his  own  house.  As  for  Sam'l,  he  felt 
victory  in  his  hands,  and  began  to  think  that  he  had 
gone  too  far. 

In  the  meantime  Sanders,  little  witting  that 
Sam'l  had  trumped  his  trick,  was  sauntering  along 
the  kirk-wynd,  with  his  hat  on  the  side  of  his  head. 
Fortunately  he  did  not  meet  the  minister. 

The  courting  of  T'nowhead's  Bell  reached  its 
crisis  one  Sabbath  about  a  month  after  the  events 
above  recorded.  The  minister  was  in  great  force 
that  day,  but  it  is  no  part  of  mine  to  tell  how  he 
bore  himself.  I  was  there,  and  am  not  likely  to 
forget  the  scene.  It  was  a  fateful  Sabbath  for 
T'nowhead's  Bell  and  her  swains,  and  destined  to 
be  remembered  for  the  painful  scandal  which  they 
perpetrated  in  their  passion. 

Bell  was  not  in  the  kirk.  There  being  an  infant 
of  six  months  in  the  house  it  was  a  question  of 
either  Lisbeth  or  the  lassie's  staying  at  home  with 
him,  and  though  Lisbeth  was  unselfish  in  a  general 
way,  she  could  not  resist  the  delight  of  going  to 
church.  She  had  nine  children  besides  the  baby, 
and  being  but  a  woman,  it  was  the  pride  of  her 
life  to  march  them  into  the  T'nowhead  pew,  so 
well  watched  that  they  dared  not  misbehave,  and 

313 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

so  tightly  pack'ed  that  they  could  not  fall.  The 
congregation  looked  at  that  pew,  the  mothers  envi- 
ously, when  they  sang  the  lines  — 

"Jerusalem  like  a  city  is 
Compactly  built  together." 

The  first  half  of  the  service  had  been  gone 
through  on  this  particular  Sunday  without  any- 
thing remarkable  happening.  It  was  at  the  end 
of  the  psalm  which  preceded  the  sermon  that 
Sanders  Elshioner,  who  sat  near  the  door,  lowered 
his  head  until  it  was  no  higher  than  the  pews,  and 
in  that  attitude,  looking  almost  like  a  four-footed 
animal,  slipped  out  of  the  church.  In  their  eager- 
ness to  be  at  the  sermon  many  of  the  congregation 
did  not  notice  him,  and  those  who  did  put  the 
matter  by  in  their  minds  for  future  investigation. 
Sam'l,  however,  could  not  take  it  so  coolly.  From 
his  seat  in  the  gallery  he  saw  Sanders  disappear, 
and  his  mind  misgave  him.  With  the  true  lover's 
instinct  he  understood  it  all.  Sanders  had  been 
struck  by  the  fine  turn-out  in  the  T'nowhead  pew. 
Bell  was  alone  at  the  farm.  What  an  opportunity 
to  work  one's  way  up  to  a  proposal.  T'nowhead 
was  so  overrun  with  children  that  such  a  chance 
seldom  occurred,  except  on  a  Sabbath.  Sanders, 
doubtless,  was  off  to  propose,  and  he,  Sam'l,  was 
left  behind. 

The  suspense  was  terrible.     Sam'l  and  Sanders 


COURTING   OF   T'NOWHEAD'S   BELL 

had  both  known  all  along  that  Bell  would  take  the 
first  of  the  two  who  asked  her.  Even  those  who 
thought  her  proud  admitted  that  she  was  modest. 
Bitterly  the  weaver  repented  having  waited  so 
long.  Now  it  was  too  late.  In  ten  minutes 
Sanders  would  be  at  T'nowhead;  in  an  hour  all 
would  be  over.  Sam'l  rose  to  his  feet  in  a  daze. 
His  mother  pulled  him  down  by  the  coat-tail,  and 
his  father  shook  him,  thinking  he  was  walking  in 
his  sleep.  He  tottered  past  them,  however,  hurried 
up  the  aisle,  which  was  so  narrow  that  Dan'l  Ross 
could  only  reach  his  seat  by  walking  sideways, 
and  was  gone  before  the  minister  could  do  more 
than  stop  in  the  middle  of  a  whirl  and  gape  in 
horror  after  him. 

A  number  of  the  congregation  felt  that  day  the 
advantage  of  sitting  in  the  laft.  What  was  a 
mystery  to  those  downstairs  was  revealed  to  them. 
From  the  gallery  windows  they  had  a  fine  open 
view  to  the  south ;  and  as  Sam'l  took  the  com- 
mon, which  was  a  short  cut  though  a  steep  as- 
cent, to  T'nowhead,  he  was  never  out  of  their  line 
of  vision.  Sanders  was  not  to  be  seen,  but  they 
guessed  rightly  the  reason  why.  Thinking  he  had 
ample  time,  he  had  gone  round  by  the  main  road 
to  save  his  boots — perhaps  a  little  scared  by  what 
was  coming.  Sam'l's  design  was  to  forestall  him 
by  taking  the  shorter  path  over  the  burn  and  up 
the  commonty. 

315 


AULD  LIGHT   IDYLLS 

It  was  a  race  for  a  wife,  and  several  on-lookers 
in  the  gallery  braved  the  minister's  displeasure  to 
see  who  won.  Those  who  favoured  Sam'Ps  suit 
exultingly  saw  him  leap  the  stream,  while  the 
friends  of  Sanders  fixed  their  eyes  on  the  top  of 
the  common  where  it  ran  into  the  road.  Sanders 
must  come  into  sight  there,  and  the  one  who 
reached  this  point  first  would  get  Bell. 

As  Auld  Lichts  do  not  walk  abroad  on  the  Sab- 
bath, Sanders  would  probably  not  be  delayed. 
The  chances  were  in  his  favour.  Had  it  been 
any  other  day  in  the  week  Sam'l  might  have  run. 
So  some  of  the  congregation  in  the  gallery  were 
thinking,  when  suddenly  they  saw  him  bend  low 
and  then  take  to  his  heels.  He  had  caught  sight 
of  Sanders's  head  bobbing  over  the  hedge  that  sep- 
arated the  road  from  the  common,  and  feared  that 
Sanders  might  see  him.  The  congregation  who 
could  crane  their  necks  sufficiently  saw  a  black 
object,  which  they  guessed  to  be  the  carter's  hat, 
crawling  along  the  hedge-top.  For  a  moment  it 
was  motionless,  and  then  it  shot  ahead.  The  ri- 
vals had  seen  each  other.  It  was  now  a  hot  race. 
Sam'l,  dissembling  no  longer,  clattered  up  the 
common,  becoming  smaller  and  smaller  to  the  on- 
lookers as  he  neared  the  top.  More  than  one  per- 
son in  the  gallery  almost  rose  to  their  feet  in  their 
excitement.  Sam'l  had  it.  No,  Sanders  was  in 
front.  Then  the  two  figures  disappeared  from 

316 


COURTING   OF   T'NOWHEAD'S   BELL 

view.  They  seemed  to  run  into  each  other  at  the 
top  of  the  brae,  and  no  one  could  say  who  was 
first.  The  congregation  looked  at  one  another. 
Some  of  them  perspired.  But  the  minister  held 
on  his  course. 

Sam'l  had  just  been  in  time  to  cut  Sanders  out. 
It  was  the  weaver's  saving  that  Sanders  saw  this 
when  his  rival  turned  the  corner ;  for  Sam'l  was 
sadly  blown.  Sanders  took  in  the  situation  and 
gave  in  at  once.  The  last  hundred  yards  of  the 
distance  Ire  covered  at  his  leisure,  and  when  he  ar- 
rived at  his  destination  he  did  not  go  in.  It  was 
a  fine  afternoon  for  the  time  of  year,  and  he  went 
round  to  have  a  look  at  the  pig,  about  which 
T'nowhead  was  a  little  sinfully  puffed  up. 

"  Ay,"  said  Sanders,  digging  his  fingers  critically 
into  the  grunting  animal ;  "  quite  so." 

"  Grumph,"  said  the  pig,  getting  reluctantly  to 
his  feet. 

"  Ou  ay ;  yes,"  said  Sanders,  thoughtfully. 

Then  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  sty,  and 
looked  long  and  silently  at  an  empty  bucket.  But 
whether  his  thoughts  were  of  Tnowhead's  Bell, 
whom  he  had  lost  for  ever,  or  of  the  food  the  far- 
mer fed  his  pig  on,  is  not  known. 

"  Lord  preserve's !  Are  ye  no  at  the  kirk  *?  " 
cried  Bell,  nearly  dropping  the  baby  as  Sam'l 
broke  into  the  room. 

"Bell!"  cried  Sam'l. 

317 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

Then  T'nowhead's  Bell  knew  that  her  hour  had 
come. 

"  Sam'l,"  she  faltered. 

"Will  ye  hae's  Bell?"  demanded  Sam'l,  glar- 
ing at  her  sheepishly. 

"Ay,"  answered  Bell. 

Sam'l  fell  into  a  chair. 

"  firing's  a  drink  o'  water,  Bell,"  he  said. 

But  Bell  thought  the  occasion  required  milk, 
and  there  was  none  in  the  kitchen.  She  went  out 
to  the  byre,  still  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and 
saw  Sanders  Elshioner  sitting  gloomily  on  the 
pigsty. 

"  Weel,  Bell,"  said  Sanders. 

"  I  thocht  ye'd  been  at  the  kirk,  Sanders,"  said 
Bell. 

Then  there  was  a  silence  between  them. 

"  Has  Sam'l  spiered  ye,  Bell  *?  "  asked  Sanders, 
stolidly. 

"Ay,"  said  Bell  again,  and  this  time  there  was 
a  tear  in  her  eye.  Sanders  was  little  better  than 
an  "  orra  man,"  and  Sam'l  was  a  weaver,  and  yet 

But  it  was  too  late  now.  Sanders  gave  the 

pig  a  vicious  poke  with  a  stick,  and  when  it  had 
ceased  to  grunt,  Bell  was  back  in  the  kitchen. 
She  had  forgotten  about  the  milk,  however,  and 
Sam'l  only  got  water  after  all. 

In  after  days,  when  the  story  of  Bell's  wooing 
was  told,  there  were  some  who  held  that  the  cir- 

318 


COURTING   OF   T'NOWHEAD'S   BELL 

cumstances  would  have  almost  justified  the  lassie 
in  giving  Sam'l  the  go-by.  But  these  perhaps  for- 
got that  her  other  lover  was  in  the  same  predica- 
ment as  the  accepted  one  —  that  of  the  two,  in- 
deed, he  was  the  more  to  blame,  for  he  set  off  to 
T'nowhead  on  the  Sabbath  of  his  own  accord, 
while  Sam'l  only  ran  after  him.  And  then  there 
is  no  one  to  say  for  certain  whether  Bell  heard  of 
her  suitors'  delinquencies  until  Lisbeth's  return 
from  the  kirk.  Sam'l  could  never  remember 
whether  he  told  her,  and  Bell  was  not  sure 
whether,  if  he  did,  she  took  it  in.  Sanders  was 
greatly  in  demand  for  weeks  after  to  tell  what  he 
knew  of  the  affair,  but  though  he  was  twice  asked 
to  tea  to  the  manse  among  the  trees,  and  subjected 
thereafter  to  ministerial  cross-examinations,  this  is 
all  he  told.  He  remained  at  the  pigsty  until 
Sam'l  left  the  farm,  when  he  joined  him  at  the 
top  of  the  brae,  and  they  went  home  together. 

"  It's  yersel,  Sanders,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  It  is  so,  Sam'l,"  said  Sanders. 

"  Very  cauld,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  Blawy,"  assented  Sanders. 

After  a  pause  — 

"  Sam'l,"  said  Sanders. 

"Ay." 

"  I'm  hearin'  yer  to  be  mairit." 

"Ay." 

**  Weel,  Sam'l,  she's  a  snod  bit  lassie/' 

319 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

"  Thank  ye,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  I  had  ance  a  kin'  o'  notion  o'  Bell  mysel,"  con- 
tinued Sanders. 

"Ye  had?" 

"  Yes,  Sam'l ;  but  I  thocht  better  o't." 

"  Hoo  d'ye  mean  ?  "  asked  Sam'l,  a  little  anx- 
iously. 

"Weel,  Sam'l,  mairitch  is  a  terrible  responsi- 
beelity." 

"  It  is  so,"  said  Sam'l,  wincing. 

"  An'  no  the  thing  to  tak  up  withoot  conseeder- 
ation." 

"  But  it's  a  blessed  and  honourable  state,  San- 
ders; ye've  heard  the  minister  on't." 

"  They  say,"  continued  the  relentless  Sanders, 
"  'at  the  minister  doesna  get  on  sair  wi'  the  wife 
himsel." 

"  So  they  do,"  cried  Sam'l,  with  a  sinking  at  the 
heart 

"  I've  been  telt,"  Sanders  went  on,  "  'at  gin  ye 
can  get  the  upper  han'  o'  the  wife  for  a  while  at 
first,  there's  the  mair  chance  o'  a  harmonious  ex- 
eestence." 

"  Bell's  no  the  lassie,"  said  Sam'l,  appealingly, 
"  to  thwart  her  man." 

Sanders  smiled. 

"  D'  ye  think  she  is,  Sanders  ?  " 

"Weel,  Sam'l,  I  d'na  want  to  fluster  ye,  but 
she's  been  ower  lang  wi'  Lisbeth  Fargus  no  to  hae 

320 


COURTING   OF  T'NOWHEAD'S   BELL 

leamt  her  ways.      An  a'body  kins  what  a  life 
T'nowhead  has  wi'  her." 

"Guid  sake,  Sanders,  hoo  did  ye  no  speak  o* 
this  afore?" 

"  I  thocht  ye  kent  o't,  Sam'l." 

They  had  now  reached  the  square,  and  the  U.  P. 
kirk  was  coming  out.  The  Auld  Licht  kirk  would 
be  half  an  hour  yet. 

"  But,  Sanders,"  said  Sam'l,  brightening  up,  "  ye 
was  on  yer  way  to  spier  her  yersel." 

"  I  was,  Sam'l,"  said  Sanders,  "  and  I  canna  but 
be  thankfu  ye  was  ower  quick  for's." 

"  Gin't  hadna  been  you,"  said  Sam'l,  "  I  wid 
never  hae  thocht  o't" 

"I'm  sayin'  naething  agin  Bell,"  pursued  the 
other,  "but,  man  Sam'l,  a  body  should  be  mair 
deleeberate  in  a  thing  o'  the  kind." 

"  It  was  michty  hurried,"  said  Sam'l,  woefully. 

"  It's  a  serious  thing  to  spier  a  lassie,"  said  San- 
ders. 

"  It's  an  awfu  thing,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  But  we'll  hope  for  the  best,"  added  Sanders, 
in  a  hopeless  voice. 

They  were  close  to  the  Tenements  now,  and  Sam'l 
looked  as  if  he  were  on  his  way  to  be  hanged. 

"Sam'l?" 

"Ay,  Sanders." 

"Did  ye  — did  ye  kiss  her,  Sam'l?" 

"Na." 

321 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

"Hoo?" 

'*  There's  was  varra  little  time,  Sanders." 

"  Half  an  'oor,"  said  Sanders. 

"Was  there?  Man  Sanders,  to  tell  ye  the 
truth,  I  never  thocht  o't." 

Then  the  soul  of  Sanders  Elshioner  was  filled 
with  contempt  for  Sam'l  Dickie. 

The  scandal  blew  over.  At  first  it  was  expected 
that  the  minister  would  interfere  to  prevent  the 
union,  but  beyond  intimating  from  the  pulpit  that 
the  souls  of  Sabbath-breakers  were  beyond  praying 
for,  and  then  praying  for  Sam'l  and  Sanders  at 
great  length,  with  a  word  thrown  in  for  Bell,  he 
let  things  take  their  course.  Some  said  it  was  be- 
cause he  was  always  frightened  lest  his  young  men 
should  intermarry  with  other  denominations,  but 
Sanders  explained  it  differently  to  Sam'l. 

"  I  hav'na  a  word  to  say  agin  the  minister,"  he 
said;  "they're  gran'  prayers,  but  Sam'l,  he's  a 
mairit  man  himsel." 

"  He's  a'  the  better  for  that,  Sanders,  is'na  he  ?  " 

"Do  ye  no  see,"  asked  Sanders,  compassion- 
ately, "  'at  he's  tryin'  to  mak  the  best  o't  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Sanders,  man ! "  said  Sam'l. 

"  Cheer  up,  Sam'l,"  said  Sanders,  "  it'll  sune  be 
ower." 

Their  having  been  rival  suitors  had  not  inter- 
fered with  their  friendship.  On  the  contrary,  while 
they  had  hitherto  been  mere  acquaintances,  they 

322 


COURTING   OF   T'NOWHEAD'S   BELL 

became  inseparables  as  the  wedding-day  drew  near. 
It  was  noticed  that  they  had  much  to  say  to  each 
other,  and  that  when  they  could  not  get  a  room  to 
themselves  they  wandered  about  together  in  the 
churchyard.  When  Sam'l  had  anything  to  tell 
Bell  he  sent  Sanders  to  tell  it,  and  Sanders  did  as 
he  was  bid.  There  was  nothing  that  he  would  not 
have  done  for  Sam'l. 

The  more  obliging  Sanders  was,  however,  the 
sadder  Sam'l  grew.  He  never  laughed  now  on 
Saturdays,  and  sometimes  his  loom  was  silent  half 
the  day.  Sam'l  felt  that  SandersJs  was  the  kind- 
ness of  a  friend  for  a  dying  man. 

It  was  to  be  a  penny  wedding,  and  Lisbeth  Far- 
gus  said  it  was  delicacy  that  made  Sam'l  superin- 
tend the  ntting-up  of  the  barn  by  deputy.  Once 
he  came  to  see  it  in  person,  but  he  looked  so  ill 
that  Sanders  had  to  see  him  home.  This  was  on 
the  Thursday  afternoon,  and  the  wedding  was 
fixed  for  Friday. 

"  Sanders,  Sanders,"  said  Sam'l,  in  a  voice 
strangely  unlike  his  own,  "  it'll  a'  be  ower  by  this 
time  the  morn." 

"  It  will,"  said  Sanders. 

"  If  I  had  only  kent  her  langer,"  continued 
Sam'l. 

"  It  wid  hae  been  safer,"  said  Sanders. 

"  Did  ye  see  the  yallow  floor  in  Bell's  bonnet  ?  " 
asked  the  accepted  swain. 

323 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

"  Ay,"  said  Sanders,  reluctantly. 

"  I'm  dootin'  —  I'm  sair  dootin'  she's  but  a 
flichty,  licht-hearted  crittur  after  a'." 

"  I  had  ay  my  suspeecions  o't,"  said  Sanders. 

"  Ye  hae  kent  her  langer  than  me,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sanders,  "  but  there's  nae  gettin'  at 
the  heart  o'  women.  Man,  Sam'l,  they're  des- 
perate cunnin'." 

"  I'm  dootin't ;  I'm  sair  dootin't." 

"  It'll  be  a  warnin'  to  ye,  Sam'l,  no  to  be  in  sic 
a  hurry  i'  the  futur,"  said  Sanders. 

Sam'l  groaned. 

"  Ye'll  be  gaein  up  to  the  manse  to  arrange  wi* 
the  minister  the  morn's  mornin',"  continued  San- 
ders in  a  subdued  voice. 

Sam'l  looked  wistfully  at  his  friend. 

"  I  canna  do't,  Sanders,"  he  said,  "  I  canna  do't.M 

"  Ye  maun,"  said  Sanders. 

"  It's  aisy  to  speak,"  retorted  Sam'l,  bitterly. 

"  We  have  a'  oor  troubles,  Sam'l,"  said  Sanders, 
soothingly,  "an'  every  man  maun  bear  his  ain 
burdens.  Johnny  Davie's  wife's  dead,  an'  he's  no 
repinin'." 

"  Ay,"  said  Sam'l,  "  but  a  death's  no  a  mairitch. 
We  hae  haen  deaths  in  our  family  too." 

"  It  may  a'  be  for  the  best,"  added  Sanders,  "  an* 
there  wid  be  a  michty  talk  i'  the  hale  country-side 
gin  ye  didna  ging  to  the  minister  like  a  man." 

"  I  maun  hae  langer  to  think  o't,"  said  Sam'l. 

324 


COURTING   OF   T'NOWHEAD'S   BELL 

"  Bell's  mairitch  is  the  morn,"  said  Sanders,  de- 
cisively. 

Sam'l  glanced  up  with  a  wild  look  in  his  eyes. 

**  Sanders,"  he  cried. 

"Sam'l?" 

"  Ye  hae  been  a  guid  friend  to  me,  Sanders,  in 
this  sair  affliction." 

"  Nothing  ava,"  said  Sanders ;  "  dount  men- 
tion'd." 

"But,  Sanders,  ye  canna  deny  but  what  your 
rinnin  oot  o'  the  kirk  that  awfu'  day  was  at  the 
bottom  o'd  a'." 

"  It  was  so,"  said  Sanders,  bravely. 

"An'  ye  used  to  be  fond  o'  Bell,  Sanders." 

"  I  dinna  deny't." 

"  Sanders,  laddie,"  said  Sam'l,  bending  forward 
and  speaking  in  a  wheedling  voice,  "  I  aye  thocht 
it  was  you  she  likeit." 

"  I  had  some  sic  idea  mysel,"  said  Sanders. 

"Sanders,  I  canna  think  to  pairt  twa  fowk  sae 
weel  suited  to  ane  anither  as  you  an'  Bell." 

" Canna  ye,  Sam'l  ?" 

"  She  wid  mak  ye  a  guid  wife,  Sanders.  I  hae 
studied  her  weel,  and  she's  a  thrifty,  douce,  clever 
lassie.  Sanders,  there's  no  the  like  o'  her.  Mony 
a  time,  Sanders,  I  hae  said  to  mysel,  There's  a  lass 
ony  man  micht  be  prood  to  tak.  A'body  says  the 
same,  Sanders.  There's  nae  risk  ava,  man :  nane 
to  speak  o'.  Tak  her,  laddie,  tak  her,  Sanders; 

325 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

it's  a  grand  chance,  Sanders.     She's  yours  for  the 
spierin.     I'll  gie  her  up,  Sanders." 

"  Will  ye,  though  *?  "  said  Sanders. 

"  What  d'ye  think  <?  "  asked  Sam'l. 

*'  If  ye  wid  rayther,"  said  Sanders,  politely. 

"  There's  my  han'  on't,"  said  Sam'l.  "  Bless  ye, 
Sanders ;  ye've  been  a  true  frien'  to  me." 

Then  they  shook  hands  for  the  first  time  in  their 
lives;  and  soon  afterwards  Sanders  struck  up  the 
brae  to  T'nowhead. 

Next  motning  Sanders  Elshioner,  who  had  been 
very  busy  the  night  before,  put  on  his  Sabbath 
clothes  and  strolled  up  to  the  manse. 

"  But  —  but  where  is  Sam'l  *? "  asked  the  minis- 
ter ;  "  I  must  see  himself." 

"  It's  a  new  arrangement,"  said  Sanders. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Sanders  ?  " 

"  Bell's  to  marry  me,"  explained  Sanders. 

"  But  —  but  what  does  Sam'l  say  ?  " 

"  He's  willin',"  said  Sanders. 

" And  Bell?" 

•'  She's  willin',  too.     She  prefers't." 

"  It  is  unusual,"  said  the  minister. 

"  It's  a*  richt,"  said  Sanders. 

"  Well,  you  know  best,"  said  the  minister. 

"  You  see  the  hoose  was  taen,  at  ony  rate,"  con- 
tinued Sanders.  "An  I'll  juist  ging  in  tiPt  in- 
stead o'  Sam'l." 

"  Quite  so." 

326 


COURTING   OF  TNOWHEAD'S   BELL 

"  An'  I  cudna  think  to  disappoint  the  lassie." 

"  Your  sentiments  do  you  credit,  Sanders,"  said 
the  minister ;  "  but  I  hope  you  do  not  enter  upon 
the  blessed  state  of  matrimony  without  full  con- 
sideration of  its  responsibilities.  It  is  a  serious 
business,  marriage." 

"  It's  a'  that,"  said  Sanders,  "  but  I'm  willin'  to 
stan'  the  risk." 

So,  as  soon  as  it  could  be  done,  Sanders  El- 
shioner  took  to  wife  T'nowhead's  Bell,  and  I  re- 
member seeing  Sam'l  Dickie  trying  to  dance  at 
the  penny  wedding. 

Years  afterwards  it  was  said  in  Thrums  that 
Sam'l  had  treated  Bell  badly,  but  he  was  never 
sure  about  it  himself. 

"  It  was  a  near  thing — a  michty  near  thing,"  he 
admitted  in  the  square. 

"  They  say,"  some  other  weaver  would  remark, 
"  'at  it  was  you  Bell  liked  best." 

"  I  d'na  kin,"  Sam'l  would  reply,  "  but  there's 
nae  doot  the  lassie  was  fell  fond  o'  me.  Ou,  a 
mere  passin'  fancy's  ye  micht  say." 


327 


CHAPTER   IX 


WHEN  an  election-day  comes  round  now,  it  takes 
me  back  to  the  time  of  1832.  I  would  be  eight 
or  ten  year  old  at  the  time.  James  Strachan  was 
at  the  door  by  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  in  his 
Sabbath  clothes,  by  arrangement.  We  was  to  go 
up  to  the  hill  to  see  them  building  the  bonfire. 
Moreover,  there  was  word  that  Mr.  Scrimgour  was 
to  be  there  tossing  pennies,  just  like  at  a  marriage. 
I  was  wakened  before  that  by  my  mother  at  the 
pans  and  bowls.  I  have  always  associated  elec- 
tions since  that  time  with  jelly-making;  for  just  as 
my  mother  would  fill  the  cups  and  tankers  and 
bowls  with  jelly  to  save  cans,  she  was  emptying 
the  pots  and  pans  to  make  way  for  the  ale  and 
porter.  James  and  me  was  to  help  to  carry  it 
home  from  the  square  —  him  in  the  pitcher  and 
me  in  a  flagon,  because  I  was  silly  for  my  age  and 
not  strong  in  the  arms. 

It  was  a  very  blowy  morning,  though  the  rain 
kept  off,  and  what  part  of  the  bonfire  had  been 
built  already  was  found  scattered  to  the  winds. 

328 


DAVIT   LUNAN'S   REMINISCENCES 

Before  we  rose  a  great  mass  of  folk  was  getting 
the  barrels  and  things  together  again;  but  some 
of  them  was  never  recovered,  and  suspicion  pointed 
to  William  Geddes,  it  being  well  known  that  Wil- 
liam would  not  hesitate  to  carry  off  anything  if  un- 
observed. More  by  token  Chirsty  Lamby  had  seen 
him  rolling  home  a  barrowful  of  firewood  early  in 
the  morning,  her  having  risen  to  hold  cold  water 
in  her  mouth,  being  down  with  the  toothache. 
When  we  got  up  to  the  hill  everybody  was  mak- 
ing for  the  quarry,  which  being  more  sheltered  was 
now  thought  to  be  a  better  place  for  the  bonfire. 
The  masons  had  struck  work,  it  being  a  general 
holiday  in  the  whole  country-side.  There  was  a 
great  commotion  of  people,  all  fine  dressed  and 
mostly  with  glengarry  bonnets ;  and  me  and  James 
was  well  acquaint  with  them,  though  mostly  wea- 
vers and  the  like  and  not  my  father's  equal.  Mr. 
Scrimgour  was  not  there  himself;  but  there  was  a 
small  active  body  in  his  room  as  tossed  the  money 
for  him  fair  enough ;  though  not  so  liberally  as  was 
expected,  being  mostly  ha'pence  where  pennies 
was  looked  for.  Such  was  not  my  father's  opin- 
ion, and  him  and  a  few  others  only  had  a  vote. 
He  considered  it  was  a  waste  of  money  giving  to 
them  that  had  no  vote  and  so  taking  out  of  other 
folks'  mouths,  but  the  little  man  said  it  kept  every- 
body in  good-humour  and  made  Mr.  Scrimgour 
popular.  He  was  an  extraordinary  affable  man 

329 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

and  very  spirity,  running  about  to  waste  no  time 
in  walking,  and  gave  me  a  shilling,  saying  to  me 
to  be  a  truthful  boy  and  tell  my  father.  He  did 
not  give  James  anything,  him  being  an  orphan, 
but  clapped  his  head  and  said  he  was  a  fine  boy. 

The  Captain  was  to  vote  for  the  Bill  if  he  got 
in,  the  which  he  did.  It  was  the  Captain  was  to 
give  the  ale  and  porter  in  the  square  like  a  true 
gentleman.  My  father  gave  a  kind  of  laugh  when 
I  let  him  see  my  shilling,  and  said  he  would  keep 
care  of  it  for  me ;  and  sorry  I  was  I  let  him  get  it, 
me  never  seeing  the  face  of  it  again  to  this  day. 
Me  and  James  was  much  annoyed  with  the  wo- 
men, especially  Kitty  Davie,  always  pushing  in 
when  there  was  tossing,  and  tearing  the  very  ha'- 
pence out  of  our  hands :  us  not  caring  so  much 
about  the  money,  but  humiliated  to  see  women 
mixing  up  in  politics.  By  the  time  the  topmost 
barrel  was  on  the  bonfire  there  was  a  great  smell 
of  whisky  in  the  quarry,  it  being  a  confined  place. 
My  father  had  been  against  the  bonfire  being  in 
the  quarry,  arguing  that  the  wind  on  the  hill 
would  have  carried  off  the  smell  of  the  whisky; 
but  Peter  Tosh  said  they  did  not  want  the  smell 
carried  off;  it  would  be  agreeable  to  the  masons 
for  weeks  to  come.  Except  among  the  women 
there  was  no  fighting  nor  wrangling  at  the  quarry 
but  all  in  fine  spirits. 

I  misremember  now  whether  it  was  Mr.  Scrim- 

330 


DAVIT   LUNAN'S   REMINISCENCES 

gour  or  the  Captain  that  took  the  fancy  to  my  fa- 
ther's pigs ;  but  it  was  this  day,  at  any  rate,  that 
the  Captain  sent  him  the  gamecock.  Whichever 
one  it  was  that  fancied  the  litter  of  pigs,  nothing 
would  content  him  but  to  buy  them,  which  he  did 
at  thirty  shillings  each,  being  the  best  bargain  ever 
my  father  made.  Nevertheless  I'm  thinking  he 
was  windier  of  the  cock.  The  Captain,  who  was 
a  local  man  when  not  with  his  regiment,  had  the 
grandest  collection  of  fighting-cocks  in  the  county, 
and  sometimes  came  into  the  town  to  try  them 
against  the  town  cocks.  I  mind  well  the  large 
wicker  cage  in  which  they  were  conveyed  from 
place  to  place,  and  never  without  the  Captain  near 
at  hand.  My  father  had  a  cock  that  beat  all  the 
other  town  cocks  at  the  cock  fight  at  our  school, 
which  was  superintended  by  the  elder  of  the  kirk 
to  see  fair  play ;  but  the  which  died  of  its  wounds 
the  next  day  but  one.  This  was  a  great  grief  to 
my  father,  it  having  been  challenged  to  fight  the 
Captain's  cock.  Therefore  it  was  very  considerate 
of  the  Captain  to  make  my  father  a  present  of  his 
bird;  father,  in  compliment  to  him,  changing  its 
name  from  the  "  Deil "  to  the  "  Captain." 

During  the  forenoon,  and  I  think  until  well  on 
in  the  day,  James  and  me  was  busy  with  the  pit- 
cher and  the  flagon.  The  proceedings  in  the 
square,  however,  was  not  so  well  conducted  as  in 
the  quarry,  many  of  the  folk  there  assembled  show- 

331 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

ing  a  mean  and  grasping  spirit.  The  Captain  had 
given  orders  that  there  was  to  be  no  stint  of  ale 
and  porter,  and  neither  there  was ;  but  much  of  it 
lost  through  hastiness.  Great  barrels  was  hurled 
into  the  middle  of  the  square,  where  the  country 
wives  sat  with  their  eggs  and  butter  on  market- 
day,  and  was  quickly  stove  in  with  an  axe  or  pav- 
ing-stone or  whatever  came  handy.  Sometimes 
they  would  break  into  the  barrel  at  different 
points;  and  then,  when  they  tilted  it  up  to  get 
the  ale  out  at  one  hole,  it  gushed  out  at  the  bot- 
tom till  the  square  was  flooded.  My  mother  was 
fair  disgusted  when  told  by  me  and  James  of  the 
waste  of  good  liquor.  It  is  gospel  truth  I  speak 
when  I  say  I  mind  well  of  seeing  Singer  Davie 
catching  the  porter  in  a  pan  as  it  ran  down  the 
sire,  and,  when  the  pan  was  full  to  overflowing, 
putting  his  mouth  to  the  stream  and  drinking  till 
he  was  as  full  as  the  pan.  Most  of  the  men,  how- 
ever, stuck  to  the  barrels,  the  drink  running  in  the 
street  being  ale  and  porter  mixed,  and  left  it  to  the 
women  and  the  young  folk  to  do  the  carrying.  Susy 
M'Queen  brought  as  many  pans  as  she  could  collect 
on  a  barrow,  and  was  filling  them  all  with  porter,  re- 
jecting the  ale ;  but  indignation  was  aroused  against 
her,  and  as  fast  as  she  filled,  the  others  emptied. 

My  father  scorned  to  go  to  the  square  to  drink 
ale  and  porter  with  the  crowd,  having  the  election 
on  his  mind  and  him  to  vote.  Nevertheless  he 

332 


DAVIT   LUNAN'S   REMINISCENCES 

instructed  me  and  James  to  keep  up  a  brisk  trade 
with  the  pans,  and  run  back  across  the  gardens  in 
case  we  met  dishonest  folk  in  the  streets  who 
might  drink  the  ale.  Also,  said  my  father,  we 
was  to  let  the  excesses  of  our  neighbours  be  a 
warning  in  sobriety  to  us ;  enough  being  as  good 
as  a  feast,  except  when  you  can  store  it  up  for  the 
winter.  By  and  by  my  mother  thought  it  was  not 
safe  me  being  in  the  streets  with  so  many  wild 
men  about,  and  would  have  sent  James  himself, 
him  being  an  orphan  and  hardier;  but  this  I  did 
not  like,  but,  running  out,  did  not  come  back  for 
long  enough.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  music 
was  to  blame  for  firing  the  men's  blood,  and  the 
result  most  disgraceful  fighting  with  no  object  in 
view.  There  was  three  fiddlers  and  two  at  the 
flute,  most  of  them  blind,  but  not  the  less  danger- 
ous on  that  account ;  and  they  kept  the  town  in  a 
ferment,  even  playing  the  countryfolk  home  to  the 
farms,  followed  by  bands  of  townsfolk.  They 
were  a  quarrelsome  set,  the  ploughmen  and  others; 
and  it  was  generally  admitted  in  the  town  that 
their  overbearing  behaviour  was  responsible  for 
the  fights.  I  mind  them  being  driven  out  of  the 
square,  stones  flying  thick ;  also  some  stand-up 
fights  with  sticks,  and  others  fair  enough  with  fists. 
The  worst  fight  I  did  not  see.  It  took  place  in  a 
field.  At  first  it  was  only  between  two  who  had 
been  miscalling  one  another ;  but  there  was  many 

333 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

looking  on,  and  when  the  town  man  was  like  get- 
ting the  worst  of  it  the  others  set  to,  and  a  most 
heathenish  fray  with  no  sense  in  it  ensued.  One 
man  had  his  arm  broken.  I  mind  Hobart  the 
bellman  going  about  ringing  his  bell  and  telling 
all  persons  to  get  within  doors ;  but  little  attention 
was  paid  to  him,  it  being  notorious  that  Snecky 
had  had  a  fight  earlier  in  the  day  himself. 

When  James  was  fighting  in  the  field,  accord- 
ing to  his  own  account,  I  had  the  honour  of  dining 
with  the  electors  who  voted  for  the  Captain,  him 
paying  all  expenses.  It  was  a  lucky  accident  my 
mother  sending  me  to  the  town-house,  where  the 
dinner  came  off,  to  try  to  get  my  father  home  at  a 
decent  hour,  me  having  a  remarkable  power  over 
him  when  in  liquor  but  at  no  other  time.  They 
were  very  jolly,  however,  and  insisted  on  my 
drinking  the  Captain's  health  and  eating  more  than 
was  safe.  My  father  got  it  next  day  from  my 
mother  for  this ;  and  so  would  I  myself,  but  it  was 
several  days  before  I  left  my  bed,  completely 
knocked  up  as  I  was  with  the  excitement  and  one 
thing  or  another.  The  bonfire,  which  was  built 
to  celebrate  the  election  of  Mr.  Scrimgour,  was  set 
ablaze,  though  I  did  not  see  it,  in  honour  of  the 
election  of  the  Captain ;  it  being  thought  a  pity 
to  lose  it,  as  no  doubt  it  would  have  been.  That 
is  about  all  I  remember  of  the  celebrated  election 
of  '32  when  the  Reform  Bill  was  passed. 

334 


CHAPTER  X 

A  VERY  OLD  FAMILY 

THEY  were  a  very  old  family  with  whom  Snecky 
Hobart,  the  bellman,  lodged.  Their  favourite 
dissipation,  when  their  looms  had  come  to  rest, 
was  a  dander  through  the  kirkyard.  They  dressed 
for  it :  the  three  young  ones  in  their  rusty  black ; 
the  patriarch  in  his  old  blue  coat,  velvet  knee- 
breeches,  and  broad  blue  bonnet ;  and  often  of  an 
evening  I  have  met  them  moving  from  grave  to 
grave.  By  this  time  the  old  man  was  nearly 
ninety,  and  the  young  ones  averaged  sixty.  They 
read  out  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones  in  a 
solemn  drone,  and  their  father  added  his  reminis- 
cences. He  never  failed  them.  Since  the  begin- 
ning of  the  century  he  had  not  missed  a  funeral, 
and  his  children  felt  that  he  was  a  great  example. 
Sire  and  sons  returned  from  the  cemetery  invigo- 
rated for  their  daily  labours.  If  one  of  them  hap- 
pened to  start  a  dozen  yards  behind  the  others,  he 
never  thought  of  making  up  the  distance.  If  his 
foot  struck  against  a  stone,  he  came  to  a  dead- 
stop  ;  when  he  discovered  that  he  had  stopped,  he 
set  off  again. 

335 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

A  high  wall  shut  off  this  old  family's  house  and 
garden  from  the  clatter  of  Thrums,  a  wall  that 
gave  Snecky  some  trouble  before  he  went  to  live 
within  it.  I  speak  from  personal  knowledge.  One 
spring  morning,  before  the  schoolhouse  was  built, 
I  was  assisting  the  patriarch  to  divest  the  gaunt 
garden  pump  of  its  winter  suit  of  straw.  I  was 
taking  a  drink,  I  remember,  my  palm  over  the 
mouth  of  the  wooden  spout  and  my  mouth  at  the 
gimlet  hole  above,  when  a  leg  appeared  above  the 
corner  of  the  wall  against  which  the  henhouse 
was  built.  Two  hands  followed,  clutching  des- 
perately at  the  uneven  stones.  Then  the  leg 
worked  as  if  it  were  turning  a  grind-stone,  and 
next  moment  Snecky  was  sitting  breathlessly  on 
the  dyke.  From  this  to  the  henhouse,  whose 
roof  was  of  "  divets,"  the  descent  was  compara- 
tively easy,  and  a  slanting  board  allowed  the  dar- 
ing bellman  to  slide  thence  to  the  ground.  He 
had  come  on  business,  and  having  talked  it  over 
slowly  with  the  old  man  he  turned  to  depart. 
Though  he  was  a  genteel  man,  I  heard  him  sigh 
heavily  as,  with  the  remark,  "Ay,  weel,  I'll  be 
movin'  again,"  he  began  to  rescale  the  wall.  The 
patriarch,  twisted  round  the  pump,  made  no  re* 
ply,  so  I  ventured  to  suggest  to  the  bellman  that 
he  might  find  the  gate  easier.  "  Is  there  a  gate  ?  ** 
said  Snecky,  in  surprise  at  the  resources  of  civili- 
zation. I  pointed  it  out  to  him,  and  he  went  his 

336 


A   VERY   OLD   FAMILY 

way  chuckling.  The  old  man  told  me  that  he 
had  sometimes  wondered  at  Snecky's  mode  of  ap- 
proach, but  it  had  not  struck  him  to  say  anything. 
Afterwards,  when  the  bellman  took  up  his  abode 
there,  they  discussed  the  matter  heavily. 

Hobart  inherited  both  his  bell  and  his  nick- 
name from  his  father,  who  was  not  a  native  of 
Thrums.  He  came  from  some  distant  part  where 
the  people  speak  of  snecking  the  door,  meaning 
shut  it.  In  Thrums  the  word  used  is  steek,  and 
sneck  seemed  to  the  inhabitants  so  droll  and  ri- 
diculous that  Hobart  got  the  name  of  Snecky.  His 
son  left  Thrums  at  the  age  of  ten  for  the  distant 
farm  of  Tirl,  and  did  not  return  until  the  old  bell- 
man's death,  twenty  years  afterwards ;  but  the  first 
remark  he  overheard  on  entering  the  kirkwynd 
was  a  conjecture  flung  across  the  street  by  a  grey- 
haired  crone,  that  he  would  be  "little  Snecky 
come  to  bury  auld  Snecky." 

The  father  had  a  reputation  in  his  day  for  "  cry- 
ing "  crimes  he  was  suspected  of'having  committed 
himself,  but  the  Snecky  I  knew  had  too  high  a 
sense  of  his  own  importance  for  that.  On  great 
occasions,  such  as  the  loss  of  little  Davy  Dundas, 
or  when  a  tattle  roup  had  to  be  cried,  he  was  even 
offensively  inflated;  but  ordinary  announcements^ 
such  as  the  approach  of  a  flying  stationer,  the  roup 
of  a  deceased  weaver's  loom,  or  the  arrival  in 
Thrums  of  a  cart-load  of  fine  "  kebec  "  cheeses,  he 

337 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

treated  as  the  merest  trifles.  I  see  still  the  bent 
legs  of  the  snuffy  old  man  straightening  to  the  tin- 
kle of  his  bell,  and  the  smirk  with  which  he  let 
the  curious  populace  gather  round  him.  In  one 
hand  he  ostentatiously  displayed  the  paper  on 
which  what  he  had  to  cry  was  written,  but,  like 
the  minister,  he  scorned  to  "read."  With  the 
bell  carefully  tucked  under  his  oxter  he  gave  forth 
his  news  in  a  rasping  voice  that  broke  now  and 
again  into  a  squeal.  Though  Scotch  in  his  un- 
official conversation,  he  was  believed  to  deliver 
himself  on  public  occasions  in  the  finest  English. 
When  trotting  from  place  to  place  with  his  news 
he  carried  his  bell  by  the  tongue  as  cautiously  as 
if  it  were  a  flagon  of  milk. 

Snecky  never  allowed  himself  to  degenerate 
into  a  mere  machine.  His  proclamations  were 
provided  by  those  who  employed  him,  but  his 
soul  was  his  own.  Having  cried  a  potato  roup 
he  would  sometimes  add  a  word  of  warning,  such 
as,  "  I  wudna  advise  ye,  lads,  to  hae  onything  to 
do  wi'  thae  tatties ;  they're  diseased."  Once,  just 
before  the  cattle  market,  he  was  sent  round  by  a 
local  laird  to  announce  that  any  drover  found 
taking  the  short  cut  to  the  hill  through  the 
grounds  of  Muckle  Plowy  would  be  prosecuted 
to  the  utmost  limits  of  the  law.  The  people 
were  aghast.  "  Hoots,  lads,"  Snecky  said ;  "  dinna 
fash  yoursels.  It's  juist  a  haver  o'  the  grieve's." 

338 


A  VERY   OLD  FAMILY 

One  of  Hobart's  ways  of  striking  terror  into  evil- 
doers was  to  announce,  when  crying  a  crime,  that 
he  himself  knew  perfectly  well  who  the  culprit 
was.  "  I  see  him  brawly,"  he  would  say,  "  stand- 
ing afore  me,  an'  if  he  disna  instantly  mak  retri- 
bution, I  am  determined  this  very  day  to  mak  a 
public  example  of  him." 

Before  the  time  of  the  Burke  and  Hare  mur- 
ders Snecky's  father  was  sent  round  Thrums  to 
proclaim  the  startling  news  that  a  grave  in  the 
kirkyard  had  been  tampered  with.  The  "  resur- 
rectionist" scare  was  at  its  height  then,  and  the 
patriarch,  who  was  one  of  the  men  in  Thrums 
paid  to  watch  new  graves  in  the  night-time,  has 
often  told  the  story.  The  town  was  in  a  ferment 
as  the  news  spread,  and  there  were  fierce  suspi. 
cious  men  among  Hobart's  hearers  who  already 
had  the  rifler  of  graves  in  their  eye. 

He  was  a  man  who  worked  for  the  farmers  when 
they  required  an  extra  hand,  and  loafed  about  the 
square  when  they  could  do  without  him.  No  one 
had  a  good  word  for  him,  and  lately  he  had  been 
flush  of  money.  That  was  sufficient.  There  was 
a  rush  of  angry  men  through  the  "  pend  "  that  led 
to  his  habitation,  and  he  was  dragged,  panting 
and  terrified,  to  the  kirkyard  before  he  understood 
what  it  all  meant.  To  the  grave  they  hurried 
him,  and  almost  without  a  word  handed  him  a 
spade.  The  whole  town  gathered  round  the  spot 

339 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

—  a  sullen  crowd,  the  women  only  breaking  the 
silence  with  their  sobs,  and  l!he  children  clinging 
to  their  gowns.  The  suspected  resurrectionist  un- 
derstood what  was  wanted  of  him,  and,  flinging 
off  his  jacket,  began  to  reopen  the  grave.  Pres- 
ently the  spade  struck  upon  wood,  and  by  and  by 
part  of  the  coffin  came  in  view.  That  was  no- 
thing, for  the  resurrectionists  had  a  way  of  break- 
ing the  coffin  at  one  end  and  drawing  out  the 
body  with  tongs.  The  digger  knew  this.  He 
broke  the  boards  with  the  spade  and  revealed  an 
arm.  The  people  convinced,  he  dropped  the  arm 
savagely,  leapt  out  of  the  grave  and  went  his  way, 
leaving  them  to  shovel  back  the  earth  themselves. 
There  was  humour  in  the  old  family  as  well  as 
in  their  lodger.  I  found  this  out  slowly.  They 
used  to  gather  round  their  peat  fire  in  the  even- 
ing, after  the  poultry  had  gone  to  sleep  on  the 
kitchen  rafters,  and  take  off  their  neighbours. 
None  of  them  ever  laughed ;  but  their  neighbours 
did  afford  them  subject  for  gossip,  and  the  old  man 
was  very  sarcastic  over  other  people's  old-fashioned 
ways.  When  one  of  the  family  wanted  to  go  out 
he  did  it  gradually.  He  would  be  sitting  "  into 
the  fire  "  browning  his  corduroy  trousers,  and  he 
would  get  up  slowly.  Then  he  gazed  solemnly 
before  him  for  a  time,  and  after  that,  if  you  watched 
him  narrowly,  you  would  see  that  he  was  really 
moving  to  the  door.  Another  member  of  the  fam- 

340 


A   VERY   OLD   FAMILY 

ily  took  the  vacant  seat  with  the  same  precautions. 
Will'um,  the  eldest,  has  a  gun,  which  customarily 
stands  behind  the  old  eight-day  clock;  and  he 
takes  it  with  him  to  the  garden  to  shoot  the  black- 
birds. Long  before  Will'um  is  ready  to  let  fly, 
the  blackbirds  have  gone  away ;  and  so  the  gun  is 
never,  never  fired :  but  there  is  a  determined  look 
on  WilPum's  face  when  he  returns  from  the 
garden. 

In  the  stormy  days  of  his  youth  the  old  man 
had  been  a  "  Black  Nib."  The  Black  Nibs  were 
the  persons  who  agitated  against  the  French  war  ; 
and  the  public  feeling  against  them  ran  strong  and 
deep.  In  Thrums  the  local  Black  Nibs  were 
burned  in  effigy,  and  whenever  they  put  their 
heads  out  of  doors  they  risked  being  stoned. 
Even  where  the  authorities  were  unprejudiced  they 
were  helpless  to  interfere ;  and  as  a  rule  they  were 
as  bitter  against  the  Black  Nibs  as  the  populace 
themselves.  Once  the  patriarch  was  running 
through  the  street  with  a  score  of  the  enemy  at  his 
heels,  and  the  bailie,  opening  his  window,  shouted 
to  them,  "  Stane  the  Black  Nib  oot  o*  the  toon ! " 

When  the  patriarch  was  a  young  man  he  was  a 
follower  of  pleasure.  This  is  the  one  thing  about 
him  that  his  family  have  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand. A  solemn  stroll  through  the  kirkyard  was 
not  sufficient  relaxation  in  those  riotous  times,  after 
a  hard  day  at  the  loom ;  and  he  rarely  lost  a  chance 

341 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

of  going  to  see  a  man  hanged.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  hanging  in  those  days ;  and  yet  the  author- 
ities had  an  ugly  way  of  reprieving  condemned 
men  on  whom  the  sightseers  had  been  counting. 
An  air  of  gloom  would  gather  on  my  old  friend's 
countenance  when  he  told  how  he  and  his  contem- 
poraries in  Thrums  trudged  every  Saturday  for  six 
weeks  to  the  county  town,  many  miles  distant,  to 
witness  the  execution  of  some  criminal  in  whom 
they  had  a  local  interest,  and  who,  after  disappoint- 
ing them  again  and  again,  was  said  to  have  been 
bought  off  by  a  friend.  His  crime  had  been  stolen 
entrance  into  a  house  in  Thrums  by  the  chimney, 
with  intent  to  rob ;  and,  though  this  old-fashioned 
family  did  not  see  it,  not  the  least  noticeable  inci- 
dent in  the  scrimmage  that  followed  was  the  pru- 
dence of  the  canny  housewife.  When  she  saw  the 
legs  coming  down  the  lum,  she  rushed  to  the  kail- 
pot  which  was  on  the  fire  and  put  on  the  lid.  She 
confessed  that  this  was  not  done  to  prevent  the 
visitor's  scalding  himself,  but  to  save  the  broth. 

The  old  man  was  repeated  in  his  three  sons. 
They  told  his  stories  precisely  as  he  did  himself, 
taking  as  long  in  the  telling,  and  making  the 
points  in  exactly  the  same  way.  By  and  by  they 
will  come  to  think  that  they  themselves  were  of 
those  past  times.  Already  the  young  ones  look 
like  contemporaries  of  their  father. 

342 


CHAPTER  XI 

LITTLE  RATHIE'S  "BURAL" 

DEVOUT-UNDER-DIFFICULTIES  would  have  been  the 
name  of  Lang  Tammas  had  he  been  of  Covenant- 
ing times.  So  I  thought  one  wintry  afternoon, 
years  before  I  went  to  the  schoolhouse,  when  he 
dropped  in  to  ask  the  pleasure  of  my  company  to 
the  farmer  of  Little  Rathie's  "  bural."  As  a  good 
Auld  Licht,  Tammas  reserved  his  swallow-tail  coat 
and  "  lum  hat "  (chimney  pot)  for  the  kirk  and 
funerals ;  but  the  coat  would  have  flapped  villain- 
ously, to  Tammas's  eternal  ignominy,  had  he  for 
one  rash  moment  relaxed  his  hold  on  the  bottom 
button,  and  it  was  only  by  walking  sideways,  as 
horses  sometimes  try  to  do,  that  the  hat  could  be 
kept  at  the  angle  of  decorum.  Let  it  not  be 
thought  that  Tammas  had  asked  me  to  Little 
Rathie's  funeral  on  his  own  responsibility.  Burals 
were  among  the  few  events  to  break  the  monotony 
of  an  Auld  Licht  winter,  and  invitations  were  as 
much  sought  after  as  cards  to  my  lady's  dances  in 
the  south.  This  had  been  a  fair  average  season 
for  Tammas,  though  of  his  four  burials  one  had 

343 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

been  a  bairn's  —  a  mere  bagatelle ;  but  had  it  not 
been  for  the  death  of  Little  Rathie  I  would  proba- 
bly not  have  been  out  that  year  at  all. 

The  small  farm  of  Little  Rathie  lies  two  miles 
from  Thrums,  and  Tammas  and  I  trudged  man- 
fully through  the  snow,  adding  to  our  numbers  as 
we  went.  The  dress  of  none  differed  materially 
from  the  precentor's,  and  the  general  effect  was  of 
septuagenarians  in  each  other's  best  clothes,  though 
living  in  low-roofed  houses  had  bent  most  of  them 
before  their  time.  By  a  rearrangement  of  gar- 
ments, such  as  making  Tammas  change  coat,  hat, 
and  trousers  with  Cragiebuckle,  Silva  McQueen, 
and  Sam'l  Wilkie  respectively,  a  dexterous  tailor 
might  perhaps  have  supplied  each  with  a  "  fit" 
The  talk  was  chiefly  of  Little  Rathie,  and  some- 
times threatened  to  become  animated,  when  an- 
other mourner  would  fall  in  and  restore  the  more 
fitting  gloom. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  the  new  comer  would  say,  by  way  of 
responding  to  the  sober  salutation,  "Ay,  Johnny." 
Then  there  was  silence,  but  for  the  "gluck"  with 
which  we  lifted  our  feet  from  the  slush. 

"So  Little  Rathie's  been  ta'en  awa',"  Johnny 
would  venture  to  say,  by  and  by. 

"  He's  gone,  Johnny ;  ay,  man,  he  is  so." 

"  Death  must  come  to  all,"  some  one  would 
waken  up  to  murmur. 

"Ay,"  Lang  Tammas  would  reply,  putting  on 

344 


LITTLE   RATHIE'S   "BURAL" 

the  coping-stone,  "in  the  morning  we  are  strong, 
and  in  the  evening  we  are  cut  down." 

"We  are  so,  Tammas;  ou  ay,  we  are  so;  we're 
here  the  wan  day  an'  gone  the  neist." 

"  Little  Rathie  wasna  a  crittur  I  took  till;  no, 
I  canna  say  he  was,"  said  Bowie  Haggart,  so  called 
because  his  legs  described  a  parabola,  "but  he 
maks  a  very  creeditable  corp  (corpse).  I  will  say 
that  for  him.  It's  wonderfu'  hoo  death  improves 
a  body.  Ye  cudna  hae  said  as  Little  Rathie  was 
a  weelfaured  man  when  he  was  i'  the  flesh." 

Bowie  was  the  wright,  and  attended  burials  in 
his  official  capacity.  He  had  the  gift  of  words  to 
an  uncommon  degree,  and  I  do  not  forget  his 
crushing  blow  at  the  reputation  of  the  poet  Burns, 
as  delivered  under  the  auspices  of  the  Thrums 
Literary  Society.  "  I  am  of  opeenion,"  said  Bowie, 
"  that  the  works  of  Burns  is  of  an  immoral  ten- 
dency. I  have  not  read  them  myself,  but  such  is 
my  opeenion." 

"  He  was  a  queer  stock,  Little  Rathie,  michty 
queer,"  said  Tammas  Haggart,  Bowie's  brother, 
who  was  a  queer  stock  himself,  but  was  not  aware 
of  it ;  "  but,  ou,  I'm  thinkin'  the  wife  had  some- 
thing to  do  wi't.  She  was  ill  to  manage,  an'  Little 
Rathie  hadna  the  way  o'  the  women.  He  hadna 
the  knack  o'  managin'  them  's  ye  micht  say  —  no, 
Little  Rathie  hadna  the  knack." 

"  They're  kittle  cattle,  the  women,"  said  the 

345 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

farmer  of  Craigiebuckle — son  of  the  Craigiebuckle 
mentioned  elsewhere  —  a  little  gloomily.  "I've 
often  thocht  maiterimony  is  no  onlike  the  lucky 
bags  th'  auld  wifies  has  at  the  muckly.  There's 
prizes  an'  blanks  baith  inside,  but,  losh,  ye're  far 
frae  sure  what  ye'll  draw  oot  when  ye  put  in  yer 
han'." 

"Ou,  weel,"said  Tammas,  complacently,  "there's 
truth  in  what  ye  say,  but  the  women  can  be  man- 
aged if  we  have  the  knack." 

"  Some  o'  them,"  said  Cragiebuckle,  woefully. 

*'  Ye  had  yer  wark  wi'  the  wife  yersel,  Tammas, 
so  ye  had,"  observed  Lang  Tammas,  unbending  to 
suit  his  company. 

"  Ye're  speakin'  aboot  the  bit  wife's  bural,"  said 
Tammas  Haggart,  with  a  chuckle,  "ay,  ay,  that 
brocht  her  to  reason." 

Without  much  pressure  Haggart  retold  a  story 
known  to  the  majority  of  his  hearers.  He  had  not 
the  "  knack  "  of  managing  women  apparently  when 
he  married,  for  he  and  his  gipsy  wife  "  agreed  ill 
thegither  "  at  first.  Once  Chirsty  left  him  and  took 
up  her  abode  in  a  house  just  across  the  wynd.  In- 
stead of  routing  her  out,  Tammas,  without  taking 
any  one  into  his  confidence,  determined  to  treat 
Chirsty  as  dead,  and  celebrate  her  decease  in  a 
"  lyke  wake  "  —  a  last  wake.  These  wakes  were 
very  general  in  Thrums  in  the  old  days,  though 
they  had  ceased  to  be  common  by  the  date  of 

346 


LITTLE  RATHIE'S  "RURAL" 

Little  Rathie's  death.  For  three  days  before  the 
burial  the  friends  and  neighbours  of  the  mourners 
were  invited  into  the  house  to  partake  of  food  and 
drink  by  the  side  of  the  corpse.  The  dead  lay  on 
chairs  covered  with  a  white  sheet.  Dirges  were 
sung,  and  the  deceased  was  extolled,  but  when 
night  came  the  lights  were  extinguished,  and  the 
corpse  was  left  alone.  On  the  morning  of  the 
funeral  tables  were  spread  with  a  white  cloth  out- 
side the  house,  and  food  and  drink  were  placed 
upon  them.  No  neighbour  could  pass  the  tables 
without  paying  his  respects  to  the  dead ;  and  even 
when  the  house  was  in  a  busy,  narrow  thorough- 
fare, this  part  of  the  ceremony  was  never  omitted. 
Tammas  did  not  give  Chirsty  a  wake  inside  the 
house ;  but  one  Friday  morning  —  it  was  market- 
day,  and  the  square  was  consequently  full  —  it 
went  through  the  town  that  the  tables  were  spread 
before  his  door.  Young  and  old  collected,  wander- 
ing round  the  house,  and  Tammas  stood  at  the 
tables  in  his  blacks  inviting  every  one  to  eat  and 
drink.  He  was  pressed  to  tell  what  it  meant ;  but 
nothing  could  be  got  from  him  except  that  his 
wife  was  dead.  At  times  he  pressed  his  hands  to 
his  heart,  and  then  he  would  make  wry  faces,  try- 
ing hard  to  cry.  Chirsty  watched  from  a  window 
across  the  street,  until  she  perhaps  began  to  fear 
that  she  really  was  dead.  Unable  to  stand  it  any 
longer,  she  rushed  out  into  her  husband's  arms,  and 

347 


AULD   LICHT   IDYLLS 

shortly  afterwards  she  could  have  been  seen 
mantling  the  tables. 

"  She's  gone  this  fower  year,"  Tammas  said, 
when  he  had  finished  his  story,  "but  up  to  the 
end  I  had  no  more  trouble  wi'  Chirsty.  No,  I 
had  the  knack  o'  her." 

"I've  heard  tell,  though,"  said  the  sceptical 
Craigiebuckle,  "  as  Chirsty  only  cam  back  to  ye 
because  she  cudna  bear  to  see  the  fowk  makkin' 
sae  free  wi'  the  whisky." 

"  I  mind  hoo  she  bottled  it  up  at  ance,  and  drove 
the  laddies  awa',"  said  Bowie,  "  an'  I  hae  seen  her 
after  that,  Tammas,  giein'  ye  up  yer  fut  an'  you  no 
sayin'  a  word." 

"Ou,  ay,"  said  the  wife-tamer,  in  the  tone  of  a  man 
who  could  afford  to  be  generous  in  trifles,  "  women 
maun  talk,  an'  a  man  hasna  aye  time  to  conterdick 
them,  but  frae  that  day  I  had  the  knack  o'  Chirsty." 

"Donal  Elshioner's  was  a  very  seemilar  case," 
broke  in  Snecky  Hobart,  shrilly.  "  Maist  o'  ye'll 
mind  'at  Donal  was  michty  plague't  wi'  a  drucken 
wife.  Ay,  weel,  wan  day  Bowie's  man  was  car- 
ryin'  a  coffin  past  Donal's  door,  and  Donal  an' 
the  wife  was  there.  Says  Donal,  '  Put  doon  yer 
coffin,  my  man,  an'  tell's  wha  it's  for.'  The  laddie 
rests  the  coffin  on  its  end,  an'  says  he,  *  It's  for 
Davie  Fairbrother's  guid-wife.'  'Ay,  then,'  says 
Donal,  '  tak  it  awa',  tak  it  awa'  to  Davie,  an'  tell 
'im  as  ye  kin  a  man  wi'  a  wife  'at  wid  be  glad  to 

34« 


LITTLE   RATHIE'S   "BURAL" 

neifer  (exchange)  wi'  him.'  Man,  that  terrified 
Donal's  wife  ;  it  did  so." 

As  we  delved  up  the  twisting  road  between  two 
fields,  that  leads  to  the  farm  of  Little  Rathie,  the 
talk  became  less  general,  and  another  mourner  who 
joined  us  there  was  told  that  the  farmer  was  gone. 

"  We  must  all  fade  as  a  leaf,"  said  Lang  Tam- 
mas. 

44  So  we  maun,  so  we  maun,"  admitted  the  new- 
comer. "  They  say,"  he  added,  solemnly,  "  as  Lit- 
tle Rathie  has  left  a  full  teapot." 

The  reference  was  to  the  safe  in  which  the  old 
people  in  the  district  stored  their  gains. 

*'  He  was  thrifty,"  said  Tammas  Haggart,  "  an* 
shrewd,  too,  was  Little  Rathie.  I  mind  Mr.  Dish- 
art  admonishin'  him  for  no  attendin'  a  special  wea- 
ther service  i'  the  kirk,  when  Finny  an'  Lintool, 
the  twa  adjoinin'  farmers,  baith  attendit.  *  Ou,'  says 
Little  Rathie, '  I  thocht  to  mysel,  thinks  I,  if  they 
get  rain  for  prayin'  for't  on  Finny  an'  Lintool,  we're 
bound  to  get  the  benefit  o't  on  Little  Rathie.' " 

"  Tod,"  said  Snecky,  "  there's  some  sense  in  that ; 
an'  what  says  the  minister  *?  " 

"I  d'na  kin  what  he  said,"  admitted  Haggart; 
"  but  he  took  Little  Rathie  up  to  the  manse,  an'  if 
ever  I  saw  a  man  lookin'  sma',  it  was  Little  Rathie 
when  he  cam  oot." 

The  deceased  had  left  behind  him  a  daughter 
(herself  now  known  as  Little  Rathie),  quite  capa- 

349 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

ble  of  attending  to  the  ramshackle  "but  and  ben"; 
and  I  remember  how  she  nipped  off  Tammas's  con- 
solations to  go  out  and  feed  the  hens.  To  the 
number  of  about  twenty  we  assembled  round  the 
end  of  the  house  to  escape  the  bitter  wind,  and 
here  I  lost  the  precentor,  who,  as  an  Auld  Licht 
elder,  joined  the  chief  mourners  inside.  The  post 
of  distinction  at  a  funeral  is  near  the  coffin ;  but  it 
is  not  given  to  every  one  to  be  a  relative  of  the 
deceased,  and  there  is  always  much  competition 
and  genteelly  concealed  disappointment  over  the 
few  open  vacancies.  The  window  of  the  room 
was  decently  veiled,  but  the  mourners  outside 
knew  what  was  happening  within,  and  that  it  was 
not  all  prayer,  neither  mourning.  A  few  of  the 
more  reverent  uncovered  their  heads  at  intervals ; 
but  it  would  be  idle  to  deny  that  there  was  a  feel- 
ing that  Little  Rathie's  daughter  was  favouring 
Tammas  and  others  somewhat  invidiously.  In- 
deed, Robbie  Gibruth  did  not  scruple  to  remark 
that  she  had  made  "  an  inauspeecious  beginning." 
Tammas  Haggart,  who  was  melancholy  when  not 
sarcastic,  though  he  brightened  up  wonderfully  at 
funerals,  reminded  Robbie  that  disappointment  is 
the  lot  of  man  on  his  earthly  pilgrimage ;  but  Hag- 
gart knew  who  were  to  be  invited  back  after  the 
burial  to  the  farm,  and  was  inclined  to  make  much 
of  his  position.  The  secret  would  doubtless  have 
been  wormed  from  him  had  not  public  attention 

350 


LITTLE  RATHIE'S   "RURAL" 

been  directed  into  another  channel.  A  prayer  was 
certainly  being  offered  up  inside;  but  the  voice 
was  not  the  voice  of  the  minister. 

Lang  Tammas  told  me  afterwards  that  it  had 
seemed  at  one  time  *'  very  queistionable  "  whether 
Little  Rathie  would  be  buried  that  day  at  all.  The 
incomprehensible  absence  of  Mr.  Dishart  (after- 
wards satisfactorily  explained)  had  raised  the  un- 
expected question  of  the  legality  of  a  burial  in  a 
case  where  the  minister  had  not  prayed  over  the 
"corp."  There  had  even  been  an  indulgence  in 
hot  words,  and  the  Reverend  Alexander  Kewans, 
a  "  stickit  minister,"  but  not  of  the  Auld  Licht 
persuasion,  had  withdrawn  in  dudgeon  on  hearing 
Tammas  asked  to  conduct  the  ceremony  instead 
of  himself.  Rut,  great  as  Tammas  was  on  religi- 
ous questions,  a  pillar  of  the  Auld  Licht  kirk,  the 
Shorter  Catechism  at  his  finger-ends,  a  sad  want  of 
words  at  the  very  time  when  he  needed  them  most, 
incapacitated  him  for  prayer  in  public,  and  it  was 
providential  that  Rowie  proved  himself  a  man  of 
parts.  Rut  Tammas  tells  me  that  the  wright 
grossly  abused  his  position,  by  praying  at  such 
length  that  Craigiebuckle  fell  asleep,  and  the  mis- 
tress had  to  rise  and  hang  the  pot  on  the  fire  higher 
up  the  joist,  lest  its  contents  should  burn  before 
the  return  from  the  funeral.  Loury  grew  the  sky, 
and  more  and  more  anxious  the  face  of  Little  Ra- 
thie's  daughter,  and  still  Rowie  prayed  on.  Had 

351 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

it  not  been  for  the  impatience  of  the  precentor  and 
the  grumbling  of  the  mourners  outside,  there  is  no 
saying  when  the  remains  would  have  been  lifted 
through  the  "bole,"  or  little  window. 

Hearses  had  hardly  come  in  at  this  time  and 
the  coffin  was  carried  by  the  mourners  on  long 
stakes.  The  straggling  procession  of  pedestrians 
behind  wound  its  slow  way  in  the  waning  light  to 
the  kirkyard,  showing  startlingly  black  against  the 
dazzling  snow;  and  it  was  not  until  the  earth 
rattled  on  the  coffin-lid  that  Little  Rathie's  nearest 
male  relative  seemed  to  remember  his  last  mourn- 
ful duty  to  the  dead.  Sidling  up  to  the  favoured 
mourners,  he  remarked  casually  and  in  the  most 
emotionless  tone  he  could  assume :  "  They're  ex- 
pec'in  ye  to  stap  doon  the  length  o'  Little  Rathie 
noo.  Aye,  aye,  he's  gone.  Na,  na,  nae  refoosal, 
Da-avit;  ye  was  aye  a  guid  friend  till  him,  an*  it's 
onything  a  body  can  do  for  him  noo." 

Though  the  uninvited  slunk  away  sorrowfully, 
the  entertainment  provided  at  Auld  Licht  houses 
of  mourning  was  characteristic  of  a  stern  and  sober 
sect.  They  got  to  eat  and  to  drink  to  the  extent, 
as  a  rule,  of  a  "  lippy  "  of  shortbread  and  a  "  brew  " 
of  toddy;  but  open  Bibles  lay  on  the  table,  and 
the  eyes  of  each  were  on  his  neighbours  to  catch 
them  transgressing,  and  offer  up  a  prayer  for  them 
on  the  spot.  Ay  me  !  there  is  no  Bowie  nowadays 
to  fill  an  absent  minister's  shoes. 

352 


CHAPTER    XIT 

A  LITERARY  CLUB 

\ 

THE  ministers  in  the  town  did  not  hold  with  lit- 
erature. When  the  most  notorious  of  the  clubs 
met  in  the  town-house  under  the  presidentship  of 
Gavin  Ogilvy,  who  was  no  better  than  a  poacher, 
and  was  troubled  in  his  mind  because  writers 
called  Pope  a  poet,  there  was  frequently  a  wrangle 
over  the  question,  Is  literature  necessarily  im- 
moral'? It  was  a  fighting  club,  and  on  Friday 
nights  the  few  respectable,  god-fearing  members 
dandered  to  the  town-house,  as  if  merely  curious 
to  have  another  look  at  the  building.  If  Lang 
Tammas,  who  was  dead  against  letters,  was  in 
sight  they  wandered  off,  but  when  there  were  no 
spies  abroad  they  slunk  up  the  stair.  The  atten- 
dance was  greatest  on  dark  nights,  though  Gavin 
himself  and  some  other  characters  would  have 
marched  straight  to  the  meeting  in  broad  day- 
light. Tammas  Haggart,  who  did  not  think  much 
of  Milton's  devil,  had  married  a  gypsy  woman  for 
an  experiment,  and  the  Coat  of  Many  Colours  did 

353 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

not  know  where  his  wife  was.  As  a  rule,  how* 
ever,  the  members  were  wild  bachelors.  When 
they  married  they  had  to  settle  down. 

Gavin's  essay  on  Will'um  Pitt,  the  Father  of 
the  Taxes,  led  to  the  club's  being  bundled  out  of 
the  town-house,  where  people  said  it  should  never 
have  been  allowed  to  meet.  There  was  a  terrible 
town  when  Tammas  Haggart  then  disclosed  the 
secret  of  Mr.  Byars's  supposed  approval  of  the  club. 
Mr.  Byars  was  the  Auld  Licht  minister  whom 
Mr.  Dishart  succeeded,  and  it  was  well  known 
that  he  had  advised  the  authorities  to  grant  the 
use  of  the  little  town-house  to  the  club  on  Friday 
evenings.  As  he  solemnly  warned  his  congrega- 
tion against  attending  the  meetings  the  position 
he  had  taken  up  created  talk,  and  Lang  Tammas 
called  at  the  manse  with  Sanders  Whamond  to 
remonstrate.  The  minister,  however,  harangued 
them  on  their  sinfulness  in  daring  to  question  the 
like  of  him,  and  they  had  to  retire  vanquished 
though  dissatisfied.  Then  came  the  disclosures 
of  Tammas  Haggart,  who  was  never  properly  se- 
cured by  the  Auld  Lichts  until  Mr.  Dishart  took 
him  in  hand.  It  was  Tammas  who  wrote  anony- 
mous letters  to  Mr.  Byars  about  the  scarlet  woman, 
and,  strange  to  say,  this  led  to  the  club's  being  al- 
lowed to  meet  in  the  town-house.  The  minister, 
after  many  days,  discovered  who  his  correspondent 
was,  and  succeeded  in  inveigling  the  stone-breaker 

354 


A   LITERARY   CLUB 

to  the  manse.  There,  with  the  door  snibbed,  he 
opened  out  on  Tammas,  who,  after  his  usual  man- 
ner when  hard  pressed,  pretended  to  be  deaf.  This 
sudden  fit  of  deafness  so  exasperated  the  minister 
that  he  flung  a  book  at  Tammas.  The  scene  that 
followed  was  one  that  few  Auld  Licht  manses  can 
have  witnessed.  According  to  Tammas  the  book 
had  hardly  reached  the  floor  when  the  minister 
turned  white.  Tammas  picked  up  the  missile.  It 
was  a  Bible.  The  two  men  looked  at  each  other. 
Beneath  the  window  Mr.  Byars's  children  were 
prattling.  His  wife  was  moving  about  in  the  next 
room,  little  thinking  what  had  happened.  The 
minister  held  out  his  hand  for  the  Bible,  but  Tam- 
mas shook  his  head,  and  then  Mr.  Byars  shrank 
into  a  chair.  Finally,  it  was  arranged  that  if 
Tammas  kept  the  affair  to  himself  the  minister 
would  say  a  good  word  to  the  Bailie  about  the 
literary  club.  After  that  the  stone-breaker  used  to 
go  from  house  to  house,  twisting  his  mouth  to  the 
side  and  remarking  that  he  could  tell  such  a  tale 
of  Mr.  Byars  as  would  lead  to  a  split  in  the  kirk. 
When  the  town-house  was  locked  on  the  club 
Tammas  spoke  out,  but  though  the  scandal  ran 
from  door  to  door,  as  I  have  seen  a  pig  in  a  fluster 
do,  the  minister  did  not  lose  his  place.  Tammas 
preserved  the  Bible,  and  showed  it  complacently 
to  visitors  as  the  present  he  got  from  Mr.  Byars. 
The  minister  knew  this,  and  it  turned  his  temper 

355 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

sour.  Tammas's  proud  moments,  after  that,  were 
when  he  passed  the  minister. 

Driven  from  the  town-house,  literature  found  a 
table  with  forms  round  it  in  a  tavern  hard  by, 
where  the  club,  lopped  of  its  most  respectable 
members,  kept  the  blinds  down  and  talked  openly 
of  Shakspeare.  It  was  a  low-roofed  room,  with 
pieces  of  lime  hanging  from  the  ceiling  and  peel- 
ing  walls.  The  floor  had  a  slope  that  tended  to 
fling  the  debater  forward,  and  its  boards,  lying 
loose  on  an  uneven  foundation,  rose  and  looked  at 
you  as  you  crossed  the  room.  In  winter,  when  the 
meetings  were  held  regularly  every  fortnight,  a  fire 
of  peat,  sod,  and  dross  lit  up  the  curious  company 
who  sat  round  the  table  shaking  their  heads  over 
Shelley's  mysticism,  or  requiring  to  be  called  to 
order  because  they  would  not  wait  their  turn  to 
deny  an  essayist's  assertion  that  Berkeley's  style 
was  superior  to  David  Hume's.  Davit  Hume, 
they  said,  and  Watty  Scott.  Burns  was  simply 
referred  to  as  Rob  or  Robbie. 

There  was  little  drinking  at  these  meetings,  for 
the  members  knew  what  they  were  talking  about, 
and  your  mind  had  to  gallop  to  keep  up  with  the 
flow  of  reasoning.  Thrums  is  rather  a  remarkable 
town.  There  are  scores  and  scores  of  houses  in  it 
that  have  sent  their  sons  to  college  (by  what  a 
struggle !),  some  to  make  their  way  to  the  front  in 
their  professions,  and  others,  perhaps,  despite  theii 

356 


A  LITERARY   CLUB 

broadcloth,  never  to  be  a  patch  on  their  parents. 
In  that  literary  club  there  were  men  of  a  reading 
so  wide  and  catholic  that  it  might  put  some  grad- 
uates of  the  universities  to  shame,  and  of  an  intel- 
lect so  keen  that  had  it  not  had  a  crook  in  it  their 
fame  would  have  crossed  the  county.  Most  of 
them  had  but  a  thread-bare  existence,  for  you 
weave  slowly  with  a  Wordsworth  open  before 
you,  and  some  were  strange  Bohemians  (which 
does  not  do  in  Thrums),  yet  others  wandered  into 
the  world  and  compelled  it  to  recognize  them. 
There  is  a  London  barrister  whose  father  belonged 
to  the  club.  Not  many  years  ago  a  man  died  on 
the  staff  of  the  Tunes,  who,  when  he  was  a  weaver 
near  Thrums,  was  one  of  the  club's  prominent 
members.  He  taught  himself  shorthand  by  the 
light  of  a  cruizey,  and  got  a  post  on  a  Perth  paper, 
afterwards  on  the  Scotsman  and  the  Witness,  and 
finally  on  the  ^imes.  Several  other  men  of  his 
type  had  a  history  worth  reading,  but  it  is  not  for 
me  to  write.  Yet  I  may  say  that  there  is  still  at 
least  one  of  the  original  members  of  the  club  left 
behind  in  Thrums  to  whom  some  of  the  literary 
dandies  might  lift  their  hats. 

Gavin  Ogilvy  I  only  knew  as  a  weaver  and  a 
poacher ;  a  lank,  long-armed  man,  much  bent  from 
crouching  in  ditches  whence  he  watched  his  snares. 
To  the  young  he  was  a  romantic  figure,  because 
they  saw  him  frequently  in  the  fields  with  his  call- 

357 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

birds  tempting  siskins,  yellow  yites,  and  linties  to 
twigs  which  he  had  previously  smeared  with  lime. 
He  made  the  lime  from  the  tough  roots  of  holly; 
sometimes  from  linseed  oil,  which  is  boiled  until 
thick,  when  it  is  taken  out  of  the  pot  and  drawn 
and  stretched  with  the  hands  like  elastic.  Gavin 
was  also  a  famous  hare-snarer  at  a  time  when  the 
ploughman  looked  upon  this  form  of  poaching  as 
his  perquisite.  The  snare  was  of  wire,  so  con- 
structed that  the  hare  entangled  itself  the  more 
when  trying  to  escape,  and  it  was  placed  across 
the  little  roads  through  the  fields  to  which  hares 
confine  themselves,  with  a  heavy  stone  attached  to 
it  by  a  string.  Once  Gavin  caught  a  toad  (fox) 
instead  of  a  hare,  and  did  not  discover  his  mistake 
until  it  had  him  by  the  teeth.  He  was  not  able  to 
weave  for  two  months.  The  grouse-netting  was 
more  lucrative  and  more  exciting,  and  women 
engaged  in  it  with  their  husbands.  It  is  told 
of  Gavin  that  he  was  on  one  occasion  chased 
by  a  gamekeeper  over  moor  and  hill  for  twenty 
miles,  and  that  by  and  by  when  the  one  sank 
down  exhausted  so  did  the  other.  They  would 
sit  fifty  yards  apart,  glaring  at  each  other.  The 
poacher  eventually  escaped.  This,  curious  as  it 
may  seem,  is  the  man  whose  eloquence  at  the 
club  has  not  been  forgotten  in  fifty  years.  "  Thus 
did  he  stand,"  I  have  been  told  recently,  "ex- 
claiming in  language  sublime  that  the  soul  shall 

358 


A   LITERARY   CLUB 

bloom  in  immortal  youth  through  the  ruin  and 
wrack  of  time." 

Another  member  read  to  the  club  an  account  of 
his  journey  to  Lochnagar,  which  was  afterwards 
published  in  Chambers' s  Journal.  He  was  cele- 
brated for  his  descriptions  of  scenery,  and  was  not 
the  only  member  of  the  club  whose  essays  got 
into  print.  More  memorable  perhaps  was  an  itin- 
erant match-seller  known  to  Thrums  and  the  sur- 
rounding towns  as  the  literary  spunk-seller.  He 
was  a  wizened,  shivering  old  man,  often  bare- 
footed, wearing  at  the  best  a  thin  ragged  coat  that 
had  been  black  but  was  green-brown  with  age, 
and  he  made  his  spunks  as  well  as  sold  them.  He 
brought  Bacon  and  Adam  Smith  into  Thrums, 
and  he  loved  to  recite  long  screeds  from  Spenser, 
with  a  running  commentary  on  the  versification 
and  the  luxuriance  of  the  diction.  Of  Jamie's 
death  I  do  not  care  to  write.  He  went  without 
many  a  dinner  in  order  to  buy  a  book. 

The  Coat  of  Many  Colours  and  Silva  Robbie 
were  two  street  preachers  who  gave  the  Thrums 
ministers  some  work.  They  occasionally  appeared 
at  the  club.  The  Coat  of  Many  Colours  was  so 
called  because  he  wore  a  garment  consisting  of 
patches  of  cloth  of  various  colours  sewed  together. 
It  hung  down  to  his  heels.  He  may  have  been 
cracked  rather  than  inspired,  but  he  was  a  power 
in  the  square  where  he  preached,  the  women  de- 

359 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

claring  that  he  was  gifted  by  God.  An  awe  filled 
even  the  men,  when  he  admonished  them  for  us- 
ing strong  language,  for  at  such  a  time  he  would 
remind  them  of  the  woe  which  fell  upon  Tibbie 
Mason.  Tibbie  had  been  notorious  in  her  day  for 
evil-speaking,  especially  for  her  free  use  of  the 
word  handless,  which  she  flung  a  hundred  times 
in  a  week  at  her  man,  and  even  at  her  old  mother. 
Her  punishment  was  to  have  a  son  born  without 
hands.  The  Coat  of  Many  Colours  also  told  of 
the  liar  who  exclaimed,  "  If  this  is  not  gospel 
true  may  I  stand  here  for  ever,"  and  who  is  stand- 
ing on  that  spot  still,  only  nobody  knows  where 
it  is.  George  Wishart  was  the  Coat's  hero,  and 
often  he  has  told  in  the  Square  how  Wishart  saved 
Dundee.  It  was  the  time  when  the  plague  lay 
over  Scotland,  and  in  Dundee  they  saw  it  ap- 
proaching from  the  West  in  the  form  of  a  great 
black  cloud.  They  fell  on  their  knees  and  prayed, 
crying  to  the  cloud  to  pass  them  by,  and  while 
they  prayed  it  came  nearer.  Then  they  looked 
around  for  the  most  holy  man  among  them,  to  in- 
tervene with  God  on  their  behalf.  All  eyes  turned 
to  George  Wishart,  and  he  stood  up,  stretching 
his  arms  to  the  cloud  and  prayed,  and  it  rolled 
back.  Thus  Dundee  was  saved  from  the  plague, 
but  when  Wishart  ended  his  prayer  he  was  alone, 
for  the  people  had  all  returned  to  their  homes. 
Less  of  a  genuine  man  than  the  Coat  of  Many 

360 


A  LITERARY  CLUB 

Colours  was  Silva  Robbie,  who  had  horrid  fits  of 
laughing  in  the  middle  of  his  prayers,  and  even 
fell  in  a  paroxysm  of  laughter  from  the  chair  on 
which  he  stood.  In  the  club  he  said  things  not  to 
be  borne,  though  logical  up  to  a  certain  point. 

Tammas  Haggart  was  the  most  sarcastic  mem- 
ber of  the  club,  being  celebrated  for  his  sarcasm 
far  and  wide.  It  was  a  remarkable  thing  about 
him,  often  spoken  of,  that  if  you  went  to  Tam- 
mas with  a  stranger  and  asked  him  to  say  a  sarcas- 
tic thing  that  the  man  might  take  away  as  a 
specimen,  he  could  not  do  it.  "  Na,  na,"  Tarn- 
mas  would  say,  after  a  few  trials,  referring  to  sar- 
casm, "she's  no  a  critter  to  force.  Ye  maun  lat 
her  tak  her  ain  time.  Sometimes  she's  dry  like  the 
pump,  an'  syne,  again,  oot  she  comes  in  a  gush." 
The  most  sarcastic  thing  the  stone-breaker  ever 
said  was  frequently  marvelled  over  in  Thrums, 
both  before  and  behind  his  face,  but  unfortunately 
no  one  could  ever  remember  what  it  was.  The 
subject,  however,  was  Cha  Tamson's  potato  pit 
There  is  little  doubt  that  it  was  a  fit  of  sarcasm 
that  induced  Tammas  to  marry  a  gypsy  lassie. 
Mr.  Byars  would  not  join  them,  so  Tammas  had 
himself  married  by  Jimmy  Pawse,  the  gay  little 
gypsy  king,  and  after  that  the  minister  re-married 
them.  The  marriage  over  the  tongs  is  a  thing  to 
scandalise  any  well-brought-up  person,  for  before 
he  joined  the  couple's  hands,  Jimmy  jumped  about 

361 


AULD   LICHT   IDYLLS 

in  a  startling  way,  uttering  wild  gibberish,  and 
after  the  ceremony  was  over  there  was  rough  work, 
with  incantations  and  blowing  on  pipes.  Tammas 
always  held  that  this  marriage  turned  out  better 
than  he  had  expected,  though  he  had  his  trials  like 
other  married  men.  Among  them  was  Chirsty's 
way  of  climbing  on  to  the  dresser  to  get  at  the 
higher  part  of  the  plate-rack.  One  evening  I 
called  in  to  have  a  smoke  with  the  stone-breaker, 
and  while  we  were  talking  Chirsty  climbed  the 
dresser.  The  next  moment  she  was  on  the  floor 
on  her  back,  wailing,  but  Tammas  smoked  on 
imperturbably.  "  Do  you  not  see  what  has  hap- 
pened, man  ?  "  I  cried.  "  Ou,"  said  Tammas, 
"  she's  aye  fa'in  aff  the  dresser." 

Of  the  schoolmasters  who  were  at  times  mem- 
bers of  the  club,  Mr.  Dickie  was  the  ripest  scholar, 
but  my  predecessor  at  the  school-house  had  a  way 
of  sneering  at  him  that  was  as  good  as  sarcasm. 
When  they  were  on  their  legs  at  the  same  time, 
asking  each  other  passionately  to  be  calm,  and  roll- 
ing out  lines  from  Homer,  that  made  the  inn- 
keeper look  fearfully  to  the  fastenings  of  the  door, 
their  heads  very  nearly  came  together  although  the 
table  was  between  them.  The  old  dominie  had  an 
advantage  in  being  the  shorter  man,  for  he  could 
hammer  on  the  table  as  he  spoke,  while  gaunt  Mr. 
Dickie  had  to  stoop  to  it.  Mr.  McRittie's  argu- 
ments were  a  series  of  nails  that  he  knocked  into 

362 


A   LITERARY   CLUB 

the  table,  and  he  did  it  in  a  workmanlike  manner. 
Mr.  Dickie,  though  he  kept  firm  on  his  feet,  swayed 
his  body  until  by  and  by  his  head  was  rotating  in 
a  large  circle.  The  mathematical  figure  he  made 
was  a  cone  revolving  on  its  apex.  Gavin's  rein- 
stalment  in  the  chair  year  after  year  was  made  by 
the  disappointed  dominie  the  subject  of  some  tart 
verses  which  he  called  an  epode,  but  Gavin 
crushed  him  when  they  were  read  before  the 
club.  "  Satire,"  he  said,  "  is  a  legitimate  weapon, 
used  with  michty  effect  by  Swift,  Sammy  Butler, 
and  others,  and  I  dount  object  to  being  made  the 
subject  of  creeticism.  It  has  often  been  called  a 
t'nife  (knife),  but  them  as  is  not  used  to  t'nives 
cuts  their  hands,  and  ye'll  a'  observe  that  Mr. 
McRittie's  fingers  is  bleedin'."  All  eyes  were 
turned  upon  the  dominie's  hand,  and  though  he 
pocketed  it  smartly  several  members  had  seen  the 
blood.  The  dominie  was  a  rare  visitor  at  the  club 
after  that,  though  he  outlived  poor  Mr.  Dickie  by 
many  years.  Mr.  Dickie  was  a  teacher  in  Tillie- 
drum,  but  he  was  ruined  by  drink.  He  wandered 
from  town  to  town,  reciting  Greek  and  Latin  poetry 
to  any  one  who  would  give  him  a  dram,  and  some- 
times he  wept  and  moaned  aloud  in  the  street,  cry- 
ing, "  Poor  Mr.  Dickie  !  poor  Mr.  Dickie  ! " 

The  leading  poet  in  a  club  of  poets  was  Dite 
Walls,  who  kept  a  school  when  there  were  scholars, 
and  weaved  when  there  were  none.  He  had  a  song 

363 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

that  was  published  in  a  half-penny  leaflet  about  the 
famous  lawsuit  instituted  by  the  farmer  of  Teuch- 
busses  against  the  Laird  of  Drumlee.  The  laird 
was  alleged  to  have  taken  from  the  land  of  Teuch- 
busses  sufficient  broom  to  make  a  besom  thereof, 
and  I  am  not  certain  that  the  case  is  settled  to  this 
day.  It  was  Dite  or  another  member  of  the  club 
who  wrote,  "  The  Wife  o'  Deeside,"  of  all  the 
songs  of  the  period  the  one  that  had  the  greatest 
vogue  in  the  county  at  a  time  when  Lord  Jeffrey 
was  cursed  at  every  fireside  in  Thrums.  The  wife 
of  Deeside  was  tried  for  the  murder  of  her  servant 
who  had  infatuated  the  young  laird,  and  had  it  not 
been  that  Jeffrey  defended  her  she  would,  in  the 
words  of  the  song,  have  u  hung  like  a  troot."  It 
is  not  easy  now  to  conceive  the  rage  against  Jeffrey 
when  the  woman  was  acquitted.  The  song  was 
sung  and  recited  in  the  streets,  at  the  smiddy,  in 
bothies,  and  by  firesides,  to  the  shaking  of  fists  and 
the  grinding  of  teeth.  It  began  — 

"  Ye'll  a'  hae  hear  tell  o*  the  wife  o'  Deeside, 
Ye'll  a'  hae  hear  tell  o'  the  wife  o'  Deeside, 
She  poisoned  her  maid  for  to  keep  up  her  pride, 
Yc'Jl  a'  hae  hear  tell  o'  the  wife  o'  Deeside." 

Before  the  excitement  had  abated,  Jeffrey  wab 
in  Tilliedrum  for  electioneering  purposes,  and  he 
was  mobbed  in  the  streets.  Angry  crowds  pressed 
close  to  howl,  "  Wife  o'  Deeside  ! "  at  him.  A  con- 

364 


A  LITERARY   CLUB 

tingent  from  Thrums  was  there,  and  it  was  long 
afterwards  told  of  Sam'l  Todd,  by  himself,  that  he 
hit  Jeffrey  on  the  back  of  the  head  with  a  clod  of 
earth. 

Johnny  McQuhatty,  a  brother  of  the  T'nowhead 
farmer,  was  the  one  taciturn  member  of  the  club, 
and  you  had  only  to  look  at  him  to  know  that  he 
had  a  secret  He  was  a  great  genius  at  the  hand- 
loom,  and  invented  a  loom  for  the  weaving  of  linen 
such  as  has  not  been  seen  before  or  since.  In  the 
day-time  he  kept  guard  over  his  "  shop,"  into  which 
no  one  was  allowed  to  enter,  and  the  fame  of  his 
loom  was  so  great  that  he  had  to  watch  over  it  with 
a  gun.  At  night  he  weaved,  and  when  the  result  at 
last  pleased  him  he  made  the  linen  into  shirts,  all 
of  which  he  stitched  together  with  his  own  hands, 
even  to  the  buttonholes.  He  sent  one  shirt  to  the 
Queen,  and  another  to  the  Duchess  of  Athole, 
mentioning  a  very  large  price  for  them,  which 
he  got.  Then  he  destroyed  his  wonderful  loom, 
and  how  it  was  made  no  one  will  ever  know. 
Johnny  only  took  to  literature  after  he  had  made 
his  name,  and  he  seldom  spoke  at  the  club  except 
when  ghosts  and  the  like  were  the  subject  of  de- 
bate, as  they  tended  to  be  when  the  farmer  of 
Muckle  Haws  could  get  in  a  word.  Muckle 
Haws  was  fascinated  by  Johnny's  sneers  at  super- 
stition, and  sometimes  on  dark  nights  the  inventor 
had  to  make  his  courage  good  by  seeing  the  far- 

365 


AULD   LIGHT   IDYLLS 

mer  past  the  doulie  yates  (ghost  gates),  which 
Muckle  Haws  had  to  go  perilously  near  on  his 
way  home.  Johnny  was  a  small  man,  but  it  was 
the  burly  farmer  who  shook  at  sight  of  the  gates 
standing  out  white  in  the  night.  White  gates  have 
an  evil  name  still,  and  Muckle  Haws  was  full  of 
horrors  as  he  drew  near  them,  clinging  to  Johnny's 
arm.  It  was  on  such  a  night,  he  would  remember, 
that  he  saw  the  White  Lady  go  through  the  gates 
greeting  sorely,  with  a  dead  bairn  in  her  arms, 
•while  water  kelpies  laughed  and  splashed  in  the 
pools,  and  the  witches  danced  in  a  ring  round 
Broken  Buss.  That  very  night  twelve  months 
ago  the  packman  was  murdered  at  Broken  Buss, 
and  Easie  Pettie  hanged  herself  on  the  stump  of  a 
tree.  Last  night  there  were  ugly  sounds  from  the 
quarry  of  Croup,  where  the  bairn  lies  buried,  and 
it's  not  mous  (canny)  to  be  out  at  such  a  time. 
The  farmer  had  seen  spectre  maidens  walking 
round  the  ruined  castle  of  Darg,  and  the  castle  all 
lit  up  with  flaring  torches,  and  dead  knights  and 
ladies  sitting  in  the  halls  at  the  wine-cup,  and  the 
devil  himself  flapping  his  wings  on  the  ramparts. 

When  the  debates  were  political,  two  members 
with  the  gift  of  song  fired  the  blood  with  their  own 
poems  about  taxation  and  the  depopulation  of  the 
Highlands,  and  by  selling  these  songs  from  door 
to  door  they  made  their  livelihood. 

Books  and  pamphlets  were  brought  into  the 

366 


A   LITERARY   CLUB 

town  by  the  flying  stationers,  as  they  were  called, 
who  visited  the  square  periodically  carrying  their 
wares  on  their  backs,  except  at  the  Muckly,  when 
they  had  their  stall  and  even  sold  books  by  auction. 
The  flying  stationer  best  known  to  Thrums  was 
Sandersy  Riach,  who  was  stricken  from  head  to 
foot  with  the  palsy,  and  could  only  speak  with  a 
quaver  in  consequence.  Sandersy  brought  to  the 
members  of  the  club  all  the  great  books  he  could 
get  second  hand,  but  his  stock-in-trade  was 
Thrum  my  Cap  and  Akenstaff,  the  Fishwives  of 
Buckhaven,  the  Devil  upon  Two  Sticks,  Gilderoy, 
Sir  James  the  Rose,  the  Brownie  of  Badenoch,  the 
Ghaist  of  Firenden,  and  the  like.  It  was  from 
Sandersy  that  Tammas  Haggart  bought  his  copy 
of  Shakspeare,  whom  Mr.  Dishart  could  never 
abide.  Tammas  kept  what  he  had  done  from  his 
wife,  but  Chirsty  saw  a  deterioration  setting  in  and 
told  the  minister  of  her  suspicions.  Mr.  Dishart 
was  newly  placed  at  the  time  and  very  vigorous, 
and  the  way  he  shook  the  truth  out  of  Tammas 
was  grand.  The  minister  pulled  Tammas  the  one 
way  and  Gavin  pulled  him  the  other,  but  Mr. 
Dishart  was  not  the  man  to  be  beaten,  and  he  landed 
Tammas  in  the  Auld  Licht  kirk  before  the  year 
was  out.  Chirsty  buried  Shakspeare  in  the  yard. 


367 


DATE  DUE 


PHINTEDINU.S   A. 


A     000664080     9 


